


Feed

by Domina



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Also in which Isabela is treated like a damned human being, Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, Biting, But obviously more Skinemax than ABC, Character Development, Choking, Cock Worship, Erotica, Fenris Has Issues, Fenris works through issues, Floor Sex, Gen, Group Sex, Hawke's just a man, Hot angry stares, I swear to the Maker that there's a nice ending for these two, Incubus!Fenris, Look this is going to be an incredibly rough and dirty rag, M/M, Masturbation, Mild of the following:, Minor Character Death, More growth than an after-school special, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Public Masturbation, Rough Body Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Standing in front of an incubus, Succubi & Incubi, Wall Sex, also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/pseuds/Domina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a bite. One bite and he grew desperately hungry: for food, for sex, for warmth, for life. But for Fenris, becoming an incubus wasn't just about primal rutting and satisfying carnal desires. It was a reckoning with every thing that he feared, and every thing that he craved.</p><p>Every last fucking one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So, Fenris, what does it feel like to be a succubus?"

"A  _what_?" Hawke had almost successfully gulped down his ale, only to choke on it while Merrill casually swung her legs over the bench at their table. Isabela's hand shot out to give a helpful slap on the back while Anders chortled merrily into his scotch. 

"A succubus! Well. An incubus, since you're a man," Merrill clarified. "People who need to draw from the sexual energy of others in order to survive." She took a swig of her wine and shuffled forward, slender chin resting in even more slender hands. Fenris was mildly impressed that she could drink the stuff at the Hanged Man, after years of Dalish spirits. "I heard about that whole desire demon thing."

" _Venhedis,"_ Fenris swore loudly while Anders nearly spat out his scotch with laughter. "Not this again."

It had been completely unexpected. He accompanied Hawke to Sundermount to help with that  _somniari_ child, a shy, fumbling danger to himself who nearly became an abomination. Very much to Fenris' discomfort, they went into the Fade to defeat the boy's demons; one of them was a desire demon named Caress, and she'd instantly taken a liking to him. Like a dangerous, horned, and horny moth to a lyrium-marked flame. 

And she'd  _bitten him_. Actually bitten him, sank her pointed little teeth into the space where his neck and his shoulder met beneath a sheet of muscle. Fenris swore that she purred, and he was just barely able to push her off him as her tongue laved the broken skin. Hawke, ever the gentleman, let him deal the final blow. But he'd felt wretched for days after. Anders offered to heal him at his dingy little Darktown clinic but Fenris refused, preferring to sleep it off and deal with it alone. There was nothing that two or seven bottles of wine couldn't cure. And he could barely stand up straight without immediately wanting to drag himself back to his bed, besides.

But he woke up one morning, and the smells that overwhelmed him certainly  _did_ pull him out of bed as if they had hands. Incredibly dreadful tones mixed with the scents of overripe fruit rotting in the sun, magnified by the number of corpses that he'd left in the mansion out of spite. It made him bitter that he would have to get rid of them so soon, but it was either that, or plugging his nose. Which hadn't worked. So he dragged every last one of them behind his mansion, in the middle of the night when no one else was up besides nobles at their orgies. It took him hours to find enough soap to scour at least the rooms he inhabited, and the task put him in a foul mood for days. As did walking outside, for a time. He couldn't go anywhere without getting a strong scent profile of people, places, and things. 

His energy did return to him eventually, bringing an utterly wolfish appetite along with it. It didn't help that food suddenly tasted better to him. It became a heady blend of complex flavors that flooded his senses so thoroughly, that an apple nearly brought him to tears. Nor did it help that his strength returned with a twist, and he found himself in desperate need of frequent physical exertion. He began to take job after job when Hawke didn't call on him so that he could, at least, try to remember what being tired felt like. Which made him even more hungry. Varric threatened to change his nickname from "broody" to "wolf-man," and the thought of it still made him scowl.

 

And then morning wood became all-day-wood and...there it was. He'd grown accustomed to ignoring certain bodily annoyances, but his erection became unbearable. At first, he attempted to deal with it by not dealing with it at all. He'd tried angling it in different positions beneath his leggings to at least conceal his constant arousal, but people  _noticed_ and  _Hawke_  noticed no matter what he did. Sating himself with his own hand brought only temporary relief from the persistent aching heat pooling in his groin. He was always hot, always hungry, always horny, and the constant barrage of sensations was driving him mad. The feeling of his leggings against his cock was such that Fenris very nearly considered walking around without any trousers at all. If the air blowing against his private areas didn't turn him on, too.

Two whole weeks passed like this. He'd spent most of it wanting to die of embarrasment. Or wanting to come. Whichever came first, although preferably both.

And it was with no shortage of bitterness that he realized that all of that brought him _here_ , to sitting in the Hanged Man, talking about his cock issues with a blood mage. Anders could not look any more smug and, by the Maker, if Fenris didn't want to take him by the throat.

But -  _fasta_ fucking _vass_  - not like  _that_.

"Ahem." Merrill was apparently expecting actual words out of him, and she sipped her wine patiently with wide, unassuming eyes. "How does it feel?"

"Uncomfortable," he managed. Heat crept up his face like ivy in a Hightown alleyway and Isabela laughed heartily. Her eyes sparkled with a certain mischievousness he only recognized from having spent years in the pirate's company. She was going to tease him, and he knew it, which made him blush more. But he knew he'd never ask her to stop.

"Truly, Fenris?" she asked, leaning forward suggestively. "This makes you uncomfortable? Absolute shocker." He was straining to keep his eyes on hers, and she knew it, which made her lean more. A wave of salt and spices wafted through the air as she got closer, warming him. "Were I you, I'd be having the time of my life."

"Are you not already having the time of your life?" he asked dryly. He heard Hawke guffaw, then wheeze as Isabela rammed an elbow into his ribs. Fenris realized that he was gripping his cup and relaxed his fingers, finding some excuse to look deep into the bottom of the bone-crafted tankard. No one else noticed that it was empty.

"Absolutely," Isabela replied, satisfied for the moment. It was only when she shifted backwards that he noticed the way that her breasts jostled slightly, sending fire straight to his pelvic area. They begged to be free of her bodice, and he would absolutely release them if they asked politely. If not for other considerations. Other tall, dark-haired, scruffy-bearded considerations.

"But -" Isabela was still talking - "have you even had sex since that she-demon bit you?"

He cringed, nearly crushed by the weight of four pairs of eyes on him all at once. Hawke tensed slightly and was the first to look away, shifting uncomfortably. He reached up to nervously rake his fingers through coal-black hair and Fenris noticed the way that his arm flexed. It didn't help. It never helped, the way Hawke moved. Fenris imagined that liquid steel ran beneath the mage's skin, and it only made him want Hawke more.

They'd maintained a certain respectful distance since  _that night_ , distance that Fenris needed and Hawke honored without question. Their night of passion shook something loose in him, and he found himself plagued by unbidden memories at the most importune moments. Years later, he still suffered flashbacks, though less severe. He remembered large chunks of his life now. The knowledge had changed him. Everything had changed  _around_ him, including Kirkwall. But Hawke remained the only constant; he still offered his friendship, if not his companionship (not that Fenris had the courage to ask). So Fenris still wore that red armband. He fingered the placard of Hawke's family crest fastened to his belt, as a source of comfort.

And it wasn't that in the years since _that night_ , he'd tried to drink and fuck away the pain of losing Hawke. He had, and failed as consistently as Varric hit his target with Bianca. On more than one occasion, he'd get flashbacks and leave behind bewildered bed partners without any semblance of an explanation. Neither cock nor cunt could make him forget, or stop remembering, so he eventually stopped seeking it out. He found that casual rutting didn't appeal to him as much as it once did anyway. For how could the strange and fleeting affections of someone else compare to the thing he'd had with Hawke?

That respectful distance spoke volumes. And he would have closed it, had thought deeply about taking all that space back, if not for the demon who caught him while he was weak.

But when wasn't he?

"I have not lain with anyone, no," he forced through gritted teeth. Both Isabela and Merrill's eyebrows jumped up. Anders watched him curiously, dragging a finger around the rim of his cup. Much to Fenris' relief, Hawke's face remained neutral, although the sudden sagging of his shoulders did not escape his notice. He felt Hawke's eyes slowly glide up to him, but he quickly looked down into his drink. Once again, no one noticed that his tankard was empty. 

"Interesting!" Merrill mused, peering at him like one of her books. "You must have a lot of willpower. It usually takes a month before all the effects settle in. But most succubi and incubi can't go without sex for a few days before they get grumpy."

"But it's _Fenris_. How could you tell?" Fenris didn't even need to look up to know that it was Anders. 

"Control yourself, mage."

"Nooo, thank you.  _I'm_ happy with my personal sexual habits. Although in my medical opinion, you need a good lay."

"I do not," Fenris retorted. "And I would very much like to stop talking about it." 

"You could go to the Blooming Rose," Merrill offered helpfully. "That might help you a lot."

"What did I  _just_ say-"

"No, no, I have an Idea!" she piped up. She started waving her glass excitedly, and wine leaped onto Anders' coat.  His curses overpowered her apologies while he jumped out of the way, much too late. Good. Fenris was certain the birds who sacrificed their lives for that monstrosity could rest easily in their graves.

Hawke's laugh was full-bodied, easy and warm, which pulled Fenris out of his tankard and into a smile. When their eyes met, the hardness in his pants  _also_ became warm, and easily. In so many ways, Hawke was attractive. Aside from his occasionally-smart mouth, it was no wonder that they'd all stayed with him even now. Of course, he also smelled amazing, like freshly-burnt wood and elfroot, and he was...incredibly pleasing to look at. And when he looked at you _,_ it was as if he was looking  _into_ you. As if you were completely naked, exposed.

Fenris was the first to break eye contact, not believing it possible that any more heat could build up beneath his collar. He cleared his throat and, with some effort, his mind.

"If your plan involves engaging in intercourse with others, Merrill," he warned, "I promise you that you shall regret offering me advice."

But the Dalish elf simply shrugged, as always whenever Fenris was less than friendly with her. No matter how often he tossed barbs her way, she remained unfazed, if not even more assertive if she had an actual point to make. Part of him felt ashamed: he  _had_  manners. Knew that he should use them, too, but he didn't. So long as Danarius still lived and sought to reclaim him, he wasn't using proper protocol for anything. It reminded him too much of his leashes, of dinner parties in Minrathous that cost him many shattered wine bottles to recall.

"Perhaps succubi and incubi don't have to have sex in order to get other people's sexual energy," Merrill continued. "What if you were able to just sit back and absorb it while other people were rutting? You should give it a try. Not, you know, the rutting. The watching."

"It's not like sitting around the campfire at night listening to your Keeper's stories, Merrill." Hawke's voice was richer than honey, and deep. "I don't think that you can just pop in and say 'beg pardon! I'd like to sit in on your shag, mind if I take a seat?'"

Isabela snorted. "Lies and untruths!" she declared. She pointed to Merrill with her glass. "You've the right idea, Kitten. It might cost our dear Fenris a pretty sovereign to participate, even as a voyeur, so it'd be an expensive habit to keep up. I mean," she flashed a smile, "his cock is _obviously_ willing, but his coinpurse might not be."

"What's this about Fenris' cock?" Varric asked, announcing his arrival with the thud of more drinks hitting the table. Fenris greedily snagged the largest tankard available and drank as much shame down as he could, while everyone else chimed in to explain all at once. And the ale definitely tasted like shame, mixed with regret, mixed with whatever Corff tried to pass off as ale. He could taste it clear enough, but did not want to know. He would never ask. _  
_

Fenris could practically see the wheels turning behind the merchant's eyes as he patiently listened to their chatter. He just knew that he and his  _turgid member_ , probably described as tattooed with lyrium (it was  _not,_ and he had  _told_ the dwarf this), were going to end up in a blasted book. He hoped sourly that he'd eventually become literate enough to be able to grab a copy. If only to get Varric's autograph before promptly smacking him in the head with it. If he wanted to talk about a "hard pounding," he'd certainly get one, but not the one he'd had in mind.

So of course, when Varric settled into his seat at the head of the table and finally heard enough, the first thing that came out of his mouth was:

"This is  _definitely_ going in the book." _  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris begins caving into his hunger. A bit longer than last time, but patience gets rewarded in fairly short order. 
> 
> This is the part where you start strapping in, kids. From here on out it's going to be a bit of a ride.

Fenris smelled the Blooming Rose well before he turned the corner into the Red Lantern District. 

It wasn't that he'd never walked past the brothel. He had, on other business, back when the only thing he could smell was his own disgust. But it was as if he had a whole new nose, one that readily picked up the cloying rose perfume and sandalwood. He wondered wryly if the incense they used was similar to the bundles burned by the Chantry, and made a note to ask Sebastian later. He was sure the Chantry Brother knew, although he couldn't place why. 

As he and Isabela got closer, the air began to fill with other things that were decidedly not of the Chantry. Street vendors with what he was certain were forged permits to operate at night sold roasted meat and lubricated sheaths - "for the discreet and discerning," apparently - from red tents that haphazardly lined the street. Someone - probably several someones - was smoking dried blood lotus, which was intoxicating in its sweetness. Not that he'd dare try it; there was no telling what he'd hallucinate if he did, and he'd likely end up murdering someone. Although if he was honest, he'd probably sober up to find his arms around a statue, trousers about his ankles.

And there was the lust, which slammed into him like a brick wall. It permeated every corner of the Red Lantern District as well as dirt covered the Hanged Man's floor. And much like the Hanged Man, the busy streets smelled like booze and sweat. But the varied whiffs of other peoples' couplings were definitely there, and that was what made his mouth water. He prayed that no one would learn that if he'd smelled evidence of carnal play coming from a refuse heap, he'd still want to find a quiet corner to douse his fires. But he'd grown used to the self-loathing. He hadn't needed a demon's bite to get that. He'd have plenty more by the time he was through. 

Fenris also suspected that Merrill was at least partially right about his...condition, as he'd preferred to describe it. On their walk through the District, he could see and _sense_  people in various states of arousal: people who'd rutted; people who were about to rut; people who desperately wanted to rut; and finally, the salty, bitter essence of people who weren't going to rut, at least not that night. Every time he inhaled he felt lighter than air, so much that he'd taken to shallow breaths to remain balanced. The more he took in, the more alive he became, and the hungrier he got. For everything. He could go for a banquet and a beautiful person that moment, and still want seconds. Thirds. Fourths.

He looked over at his Rivaini walking partner. The rogue seemed at ease, not once breaking her stride as she walked around couples swallowing each other's tongues or "independent contractors" suggestively advertising themselves. Nor did she seem bothered by the District's...unique...bouquet, and he was sure that she could at least smell the perfume. Her gold jewelry glittered against her soft bronze skin, and he found himself wanting to stroke the length of her jaw. And her hair. And other places, if she consented, and he envisioned what it'd feel like if she did.

The pulling sensation beneath his leggings got worse and he was certain that he was already leaking, but he hated every moment of being caught between his cock and a hard place. If ever he envied the woman the freedom she seized for herself, it was now, when his sense of control was hanging by thinning threads. Isabela was beautiful, and quick-witted - and very dangerous, which made her even more alluring in his twisted mind. But he wouldn't make a move; couldn't, not even if she made one in earnest. There were too many complications on his end. As well as...other considerations. 

But if she had noticed him drinking in the sight of her like water on a hot day, she didn't make mention of it. In truth, he noticed a certain closed-off determination in her gait, reminiscent of the swing of her blades just before she walked (not ran) into battle. He wondered what she was thinking about. The question formed on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. The last thing he wanted to do was pry. He could barely ask her what spices lingered on her skin, even though he'd been tormented by them ever since she'd met him at his mansion. He hoped she would never know just how easily she could make Seheron out of his body.

He knew they'd arrived before they stopped at the door; the symphony of olfactory decadence and debauchery reached its crescendo not a few paces prior. "And, here we are." Isabela gestured gallantly, as if presenting him with a jewel. A red-faced, blurry-eyed man came stumbling out immediately after. The man just narrowly avoided crashing into the pair and had the gall to blame them for it. Also, he smelled salty and bitter. "Tossers," the man scowled, fumbling with his unlaced trousers before skulking off into the night. The pirate shrugged. "Harlan's a bit of a trouble-maker," she remarked idly. "Place has quite a number of characters. It's like the one in Varric's friendfiction stories, but...less pretty."

"Pretty" was not the word he would have thought to use. It had taken force to even follow up on Merrill's idea, even though sating himself in isolation was growing ineffective by the day. The Blooming Rose reminded him too much of what happened in Tevinter. Not every person who worked within its lively halls was there because they wanted to be. And when he said it out loud, the Blooming Rose sounded like slavery in his mouth. But compulsion beat repulsion in the end.

It took him fewer seconds than he'd hoped to summon the courage to open the door. But he almost couldn't help himself; that lurch in his stomach was certainly hunger, and shouldn't he go in there to at least eat something? So he put a gauntlet-covered hand on the big brass handle, pulled, and began to step in. When he sensed empty space behind him he panicked, and turned to see that Isabela's feet were firmly planted on the ground. Where his _should_ have been, but weren't. Because he lacked the will, especially within close proximity to...well.

"Go on in, don't be shy!" She waved her hands encouragingly. "They don't bite. If you don't ask for it."

"Are you certain that you don't want to go in?" Fenris asked. He was too proud to be any clearer about his desire to not do this alone, but they both knew what ran beneath his simple inquiry. Isabela shook her head, and tried to send him off with a gentle shove. Her hands brushed gently against his arms, and he bit back a small groan. She'd touched his tattoos in one of the few spaces where his skin was exposed. Pleasure edged with pain immediately washed over him and she saw it all, much to his arousal and horror.

"Shit, sorry." Isabela winced and yanked her hands back. It looked as if she truly meant it, eyes completely apologetic and wide. He was surprised that the woman was actually respectful of his boundaries, and hadn't intended to cross them. But then again, she hadn't made a single pass at him since she dragged him out of his mansion that night. An Isabela that wasn't leering at him seemed almost unnatural. Still. It wasn't like he'd spent that much time with her outside of adventures with Hawke, so it wasn't as if he had gotten to know her more thoroughly. He supposed he'd hadn't thought to try.

But even though she made no qualms about announcing her desire to look, he couldn't remember a time that she'd touched.

"It is fine," Fenris reassured her quickly. He fastened his eyes on hers, not her full and probably-soft lips, nor the intricate gold stud on her chin. "You did not intend it." He cautiously extended a covered hand. "Coming?"

But she shook her head again. Her dark curls fell forward and onto, _venhedis_ , her ample bosom. "No, not tonight. I have to shine my blades." 

Fenris paused. "Your...blades?"

"And my boots."

He looked down. Isabela's boots glowed softly in the low lamplight above the Blooming Rose's entrance, with a gloss only made possible by a recent polishing. He quirked an eyebrow, but before he could open his mouth she was rolling her eyes, sighing.

"Alright fine. It's just not my thing."

"It's not your thing?" Fenris' mouth was agape with disbelief. " _Sex_  is not your thing?"

"It is! But I don't want it all the bloody time. I have things to do, people to see, coffers to rob," she said breezily. Fenris was about to add something else, but the laugh in Isabela's throat suddenly faded. Her mouth still hung in a crooked half-smile, but her eyes were no longer clear and bright once she looked away. Fenris wondered if he misspoke as she crossed her arms beneath her chest. He had seen her look anything between the range of angry to aroused, but never  _uncomfortable_.

"You know," Isabela spoke slowly, "if I had been the unlucky bastard who got bitten by a desire demon, no one would have even asked about it. 'I wouldn't have been able to tell!' they'd say. But when the same jokes keep getting told about you, it honestly stops being funny." 

Fenris mouthed silently, looking for the right thing to say in the face of such honesty, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come. Her face abruptly brightened and she flashed him her signature smile. 

"Right then! I have pointy things to go polish, and you have pointy things to go watch get polished." The pirate winked salaciously before clapping him on the shoulder. "Tell Madame Lusine I said hello, yeah?" 

And just like that she was gone, pulling away before he could capture what had happened there, or ask after its name. She turned briskly on her heels and left. Fenris stood motionlessly in the doorway to watch her walk away. It seemed someone else was, too, because he heard a loud and rather vulgar jeer come from a group of huddled figures in the shadows. He didn't realize that he was reaching for his greatsword until an emphatic "piss off!" stayed his hand. It seemed too practiced, and he realized that she really  _had_  heard it all before.

It occurred to Fenris that he'd made one inappropriate jest too many about the pirate queen. He looked back on the night at the Hanged Man while regret uncurled in his chest. Somehow, if he could make it up to her, he would right that wrong. But she was correct; he did have pointy things to watch get polished, and his own pointy thing was drawing him further inside. He had to find some way to cope with his condition before he collapsed.

If he didn't collapse from embarrassment first. 

***

He almost did collapse from embarrassment, upon meeting with the brothel's madam.

Madam Lusine was a full-bodied, curvaceous woman of at least fifty years that smelled like wine and pickled Orlesian plums, although the white hair and well-worn brow aged her further. As did the violet blush against her pale skin, a color choice he found garish and strange. Her appraising gaze made him want to run; it rendered his palms prickly and damp, and useless.

"Well, well, serrah," greeted the Blooming Rose's proprietor, voice thick with Marcher twang. "We aren't actively hiring, but we could always -" she reached out a leathery hand - " _always_  welcome a person such as yourself among our staff." He just barely dodged her pawing and held back a growl. It would do him no good to threaten her, not while his dreadful task remained unfulfilled. But he'd come dangerously close, because her eyes flicked up to his blade as he recoiled.

"I am not looking for work, thank you," he replied stiffly. "I would like to...witness a group coupling. If that is a service offered here." 

Fenris couldn't tell if she was looking at him strangely because no one had asked such a question of her before, or if it was uncommon for elves to request such a thing. Her coarse professionalism kicked in quickly, however, and she tapped a finger on painted lips. Something like bile hung on the back of his tongue while his hardness throbbed, not to be forgotten.

"Well," she began, "next 'Golden Key' meeting isn't til' next Tuesday, but there are a number of clients who are into that sort of thing. Reckon there're a few here tonight, actually." She craned her neck around him to scan the lounge. Fenris found himself admiring her broad shoulders, and the suggestively-low cut of her dress. If he looked carefully enough, he could see the outlines of a corset just underneath her outfit, and -

"I'm not on the roster. My services are not for sale," Madam Lusine said flatly. She was done looking a lot quicker than he expected, not that he was paying her eyes any mind. It wasn't until she spoke that he felt the air entering through his open mouth.

"My apologies," he offered quickly. "I did not intend-"

"I know. Poor thing, you really do like to look, don't you?" Her lip curled with something that made his face tingle; he could barely look her in the eye, but he was as much a stubborn man as a depraved one. "There are a few exhibitionists here. A few words, and you'll get what you're looking for. No touching, unless it's yourself."

Fenris' heart began to race. He hadn't anticipated it being this easy. Despite the tightness he felt in his groin, he'd hoped that there would be enough obstacles for him to walk away, and say that he tried. Of course, the one time in his life that something came easily to him, it was the very thing that he wished to avoid. 

"And what is the price of such a service?" he asked carefully. That calculating look returned, and he almost turned on his heels before she could answer. She was looking at his armor, at the ornate haft on his greatsword, at the tattoos that began at his chin. He may not have looked like he was made out of money, but he looked like _something_ , and a something that had more than a few coppers to rub together.

"Three sovereigns," she smirked. 

Heat rose to his cheeks, and he furrowed his brow. "Three sovereigns," he repeated incredulously, "to observe, but not participate."

"Three sovereigns, serrah."

He stared at her. The Blooming Rose was incredibly popular; they did not need his coin, judging by the shine of the tables or the tapestries on the wall. And as much as he wanted to shrug and walk away, his feet remained locked in place. And there she stood, hands on her hips like she was expecting him to say something further. He already intended on giving her some amount of money, if not three sovereigns. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of haggling only to shoot him down, either.

After a minute, she rolled her eyes and let her hands fall to the counter with a thud. "Two sovereigns, and not a copper lower," she said begrudgingly. "Take it or leave it." 

"That is acceptable." Fenris fished for two gold pieces in his coinpurse. He didn't have to reach far - taking on multiple jobs had its benefits, it turned out. He put two sovereigns onto the counter as required. The elf decided to look away while Madam Lusine swiped them up and swiftly bit each one. He tried to conceal his disgust as she tucked them away, nodding approvingly. 

"So it is," she purred, significantly more pleasant once his coin was in her pocket. "Allow me to find you the perfect couple, messere. You're in quite a bit of luck tonight. But before I pair you off, what's your flavor?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Madame Lusine gave him this look as if he'd never been to a brothel before, which he hadn't, but with an air of exasperation that was supposed to make him feel terribly about it. He felt more terribly about the fact that he couldn't look at anyone without wanting to remove articles of clothing, but he most certainly was not going to tell her so. So he waited for her to explain herself with a questioning gaze, less hard than the one he'd given her before. 

"Your flavor, dear," she sighed. "Any particular race you looking for? Do you prefer the company of women, or-?"

"I am drawn to men and women both. I am not partial to any race."

"Ahhh." There came that smile again, the one that made him feel greasy and slick. "Well then. It should be easy to get you paired up.  _Very_ easy."

He sincerely hoped that it wasn't.

But a flood of things broke past his mental barriers as Madam Lusine went off to speak to her clients. The musicians in the corner were playing a slow and sultry tune, to which Fenris found his hips swaying slightly in time. Alcohol far better than the swill at the Hanged Man wafted through the air, mixing with the rose perfume and sandalwood that threatened to leave him light-headed. As if blood wasn't already rushing south from being overwhelmed by all the energy radiating off patrons' bodies, of which there were many.

He had not considered the Blooming Rose to be the melting pot of Kirkwall until he found nobles, merchants, and working men alike, all sharing a common goal. The laughs, chatter, sighs and moans raised the hair on the back of his neck. Whether they were sitting at tables, on couches, or standing in the hallway, he would have any of them. He would have them all, climb them and be crushed by them if they'd asked him, and his proximity to such opportunities made him restless. He found that he had no idea what to do with his hands, which picked at his armor and ran over his leggings as if to smooth out his reservations.

And then he found  _them_. 

Madam Lusine was leaning on the table, talking softly to the - _courtesan_ , he decided - and his client for the night. The courtesan was an elf as pale as Lusine, seeming almost as tall as him while leaning back into his seat, fingers carding short, black-brown hair. His arm was draped lazily around someone who appeared to be his client, although his easy posture suggested something far more familiar. He was another elf, with onyx curls set against dusky brown skin. The man's hair was long enough that Fenris could imagine wrapping his fingers around it, pulling it taut while his free hand slid the man back towards him over and over again.

Fenris hadn't realized how hard he was staring at them until blue and hazel eyes swiveled towards him, and then...there it was. He could feel their hunger mixing with his own like potions in a healer's flask, perfect alchemy that elevated the blood rushing in his ears to a deafening roar. The black-haired patron licked his lips slowly as Fenris' breath hitched. He could have taken him, right there on the table while everyone else watched.

But he could still hear a voice over the din of his desire, persistent and small in the back of his mind. It begged him to stop while he had a chance. He had never patronized a whorehouse before. Should never have patronized  _this_ whorehouse, to the knowledge of every person in there and every one of his companions, and _Hawke_. He should never have entered a place where people were selling their intimacies and people were buying them and -

And then he saw hands sliding between legs beneath the table. He saw the way they watched him, and knew he was all but lost.

Fenris brutally suppressed all doubt while he watched them head up the stairs, caressing each other and sending frequent glances his way. He almost chased after them with a growl but Madam Lusine appeared before him, visibly pleased with herself. Void take her. Maker bless her.

"Wait five minutes and then head up," she purred, and he no longer gave a fuck how she looked at him. "First door to your left."

Lust scorched Fenris' belly like a furnace, burning through the longest five minutes of his life. He was far hungrier than he'd ever been. On that night, no one was going to stop him from sating his appetite.

Not even himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was by this chapter that I realized that this is no longer porn-with-plot. It's erotica, through and through, with actual character development! That means things! And I want to treat Fenris with the consideration that his personal history requires.
> 
> I'm not changing the sex scenes for anything - they're ALL still in there - but I'm definitely writing this with all the associated implications in mind. Especially with what happens by the end of this chapter. Cos when I said it'd be a bit of a ride...I meant it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.  
> -Domina

When Fenris reached the fifth minute, he could have crumpled onto the floor from want.

He looked up at the top of the stairs and shut out all the rest. Oh, he could still hear the musicians and laughter, still knew that the sandalwood and rose would seep into his armor and coat his skin, still felt the _want_ and  _need_ of the people around him. But they seemed miles away. He envisioned the two men upstairs and suddenly, it felt as if he could not move fast enough. How long would it take before quiet whispers were swallowed by hungry mouths? Would it only be a moment before hands that searched became hands that found, held, seized, took? To wait five minutes had been an act of cruelty. He would not delay any further.

The world around him became saturated - far more rich in color than any painter could ever attempt, as if he were in a fever dream. He looked down the hallway and could see the wood grain in every bench, the shine of every door handle. The scent of oils and sweat escaped beneath carefully-closed doors. And as much as they tried to ensure discretion, Fenris heard every desperate thrust, every creaking bed, every sweet nothing.

A sublime chorus of moans, sighs, and rocking furniture filled his ears, and he longed to join them. A woman's scream pierced the air from a room further down and he did, a thin reedy whine that would have him red and running any other night. But he knew that she'd come: he could feel her waves of pleasure, ones that he wished he'd given her himself. He wished he were crouched between her thighs, parting her folds, lapping her up like a thirsty wolf at a stream. Not stopping until the bottom of half of his face gleamed. He would drink deeply of her, whoever she was.

And then...there it was. He stopped just before the door, where the remaining shreds of his dignity would be cast aside. He could  _feel_   them inside - hear them kissing even though the door was thick - and his hand rushed to the simple doorknob. All it needed was a turn. A twist, even. And yet _right that second_ was the moment in which his hand chose to freeze. The voice of reason he'd tamped down finally pushed through, triumphant.

 _Once that door opens, there can be no turning back_ , it warned. _Are you prepared to accept what that means?_  

He was stiff, tingling, pulling. He felt trapped in the prison of his body; every inch of him was dying to break out, onto a bed, or the floor, or the wall. Onto and into someone else. What else _could_ he say but yes?

But a throaty moan rose and it reminded him of Hawke - of all the considerations that held him back for so long. Not a single reservation could withstand the pressure of his cock straining against his leggings. Then clothes and belts started hitting the floor, and the sound of it made him weak. 

But when wasn't he?

So with a twist, he pushed past his doubt and into the door. It took half of his restraint not to rut against it as he slipped inside. It took nearly all the rest to not disturb what awaited him.

They were beautiful. The two men were a writhing tangle of limbs on their bed: arms that held and reached, legs that wrapped and widened. Hands roamed like scouts in familiar territory, slow but sure. Their exposed skin glowed under the candlelight. Fenris found their shirts strewn on the floor next to the bedsheets, which were half folded before getting shoved aside and discarded for more pressing matters. 

"Your trousers, Shielan," the courtesan whispered in between kisses. "May I remove them?"

"Always the bloody gentleman, Marin," Shielan rasped. But Marin only smirked. He wound his hips into Shielan, and this earned him a curse ground down into a groan.

"That wasn't an answer."

"Yes. Cut them off, if you must."

Marin's chuckle was deep and rich, like Antivan chocolate. With a lingering kiss he began to shift down past Sheilan's hips. It was once Fenris tried to ease the door shut that Marin noticed his presence, and when their eyes met it was like being hit with an arrow. Marin ran his tongue across his lips, as if in greeting. 

Blue eyes almost completely overtaken by black slowly shifted from Fenris to a space on his right. Guiding him, like the way Shielan guided Marin towards his laces. 

Fenris followed Marin's gaze to discover that they'd already moved a chair into place for him. Solid wood, cleverly cushioned with a black pillow, and just close enough to be in their peripheral vision. A small bottle of oil was stationed near one of the front legs. Not that he'd needed it - he wasn't cut - but smiled at their consideration nonetheless.

Shielan turned his head towards him with a smile, too, heavy-lidded eyes dark with want. Fenris watched him push the hair out of his face while Marin bent down to nip at his exposed sides. Their breathy laughter made Fenris' skin prickle. He slid hand down to the front of his leggings, and it became harder to breathe.

Why had he only wished to watch, again?

It took several controlled, painstakingly slow steps before Fenris could lay down his sword and sink into his chair. It was comfortable, much too comfortable to be for mundane use; he imagined Shielan sitting astride him, sliding up and down his length. He imagined how firm the man's waist was beneath his hand, how soft his hair would be when tangled in his fingers. Shielan's neck was thick and Fenris would expose it, just long enough to drag his teeth and tongue alongside it. He had already smelled the ocean on his skin; if he ran his tongue against him, he was certain that he'd taste salt. 

A sharp inhale shook his reverie and he found Marin grinding his palm into the man's groin, covering his sides with bites and kisses that distracted and destroyed. Well. Were destroying Fenris, slowly, as he removed his gauntlets. He found himself fingering the fastenings on his armor; it was too hot, and beads of sweat were beginning to form. But he would have to leave it on. The noises would disturb the men before him, and he would not disturb their play for the world. 

 _Not even for Hawke_ , a dark part of him thought. But he was hungry, and it was  _those two_  before him, ready to be devoured by his gaze. How foolish would it be to starve?

Utterly foolish, he decided, as Marin slid his tongue across the skin near his lover's waistband. Long, practiced fingers plucked at laces like heartstrings. Slow and deliberate. A pull here and a sharp yank there has Shielan raising his hips, just to be pushed back down by an insistent hand. Only when the two strands finally fell to the side did Marin allow him to thrust into the air - it proved convenient, and he peeled the defeated trousers off him with ease. Fenris saw Sheilan's hardened length bob forward, foreskin pulled back, while Marin tossed the last of his garments to the side. 

"I missed you," Fenris heard Shielan murmur. The two men's eyes locked and something passed between them - he could feel it in his chest, his gut, his cock. Their gaze never broke while Marin brought his face to Shielan's groin, low enough that Fenris imagined his breath ghosting against his skin.

"I missed you too. Let me show you how much."

And then Marin took him into his mouth. Shielan exhaled and reached for him. His fingers sought and found purchase amid black-brown strands of hair, becoming a firm grip after Marin flattened his tongue against the shaft. Fenris watched his cheeks hollow as he moved, so closely that he was panting by the time he heard Marin gag.

He wanted to be choked. Maker, did he want to be choked, until he was stamping his hands against thighs and begging for air. And he wanted _to_ choke, wanted to hold someone's head against him and tell them to stay there until his balls were coated in their obedience. He recalled the way the kohl of an old fling was running down her cheeks by the time he'd finished. The marks left by her nails had persisted for days.

Then Marin swallowed, the bastard, swallowed his lover whole, and Shielan's impassioned sob could have brought Fenris to his knees. 

And if Fenris closed his eyes for long enough, he could imagine Marin's wet mouth wrapped around him. So he did, while he hurriedly pulled himself free. The image of the man kneeling between his thighs had him grinding into his seat, opening his legs, and cursing the tyranny of armor. He was well and readily sticky with precome. Fenris wondered how long he'd last once he brought his foreskin back and forth across his tip. If they kept this up, not very long. 

The first few tugs provoked him into making noise - loud, shameless, _tortured_ \- but he didn't care if they could hear. They didn't. His voice was nothing compared the sound of being taken by the throat. Of a strangled moan. Of growls in the form of "fucking show me how much you missed me." Of the reply that would be clearly heard, if not for the mouth so thoroughly filled. Fenris dragged a desperate hand to his neck while he tossed his head back and stroked away.

Fenris then heard the sound of a cork being removed; lubricant, he suspected, as the scent of sweetened oil teased his nose. He lowered his head to find Marin sitting back and coating his fingers. His lips, debauched and puffy and _wet_ with drool dripping down to his chin, pulled into a smile full of promise.

"Get your mouth back here," Shielan commanded. His legs were spread invitingly wide. But Marin hummed his refusal as he lowered himself once again. 

A slicked finger circled Shielan's pucker. Marin teased it, slipping half a digit in and out before pulling back to stroke the entrance. By the third go at it Shielan growled for more, until his finger slid all the way in, while Fenris pressed feverishly at his perineum. He cursed himself, again, for coming in full armor.

He wanted Marin's finger inside of _him_ while a tongue flicked cruelly away at his skin. He wanted to be filled, wanted that second finger gliding in and stretching _him_ wide until a third, or a fourth, had him wanting and wanton and ready. He wanted to look down and think only of how well and full he was - and how well he filled someone else. And he envied Shielan, wished that he could rip those moans out of that pretty little mouth, until he saw him reach down and drag Marin's mouth off him. The wet and sloppy  _pop_  of it made his taint prickle with heat.

"Enough," Sheilan panted. "I want to feel you." 

 _Fasta vass_ , the smirk that Marin gave him. "I've only two fingers in," he teased. "Are you cer-"

" _Vhenan_.  _Please_." 

The endearment lit a fire behind Marin's eyes that burned away all prior sweetness. He didn't take his time with his own trousers. Instead he tore away at them like fetters until his cock sprung free, heavy and thick. Fenris noticed that it was cut. It reminded him of something from Tevinter, a something which he did not entertain, because Marin hastily poured more oil on his hand and worked it quickly down his shaft. Shielan looked on, hazel eyes blown wide in anticipation of what was to come.

That Madam Lusine did her job well. Void take her. Maker bless her.

Within the blink of an eye Marin was hovering above Shielan, drinking in the sight of him as Fenris did. Fenris' hand slid up to the tip of his cock while he watched Marin position himself. He was just about to push in - but Shielan dug his heels into the bed and shoved himself forward, taking his lover half of the way in. Marin started, swearing so loudly that Fenris could feel it.

Without hesitation Marin hilted himself inside Shielan, who hissed at what Fenris imagined to be the most delicious burn. Marin steadied himself with one hand. His other snatched up his partner's wrists and brought them above his head, back toward the iron-wrought headboard. They stayed there for a moment, chests heaving, before Marin dipped in and licked the other's lips. Their kiss was greedy, impatient, and Fenris wondered what it would be like to only take.

To have that much to give.

So it was with desperation that he gripped his knee while Marin found his pace. Shielan opened his mouth to sound his pleasure but Marin swallowed it hungrily with his tongue, his teeth, his lips. The man could only whimper into Marin's mouth while he engulfed him, every inch of him, over and over again.

And Marin was no longer gentle. His thrusts were slow but forceful, angled in such a way that had Shielan's wrists struggling against his grasp. Every twist was rewarded with a harder thrust. Until Marin pulled away, eyes glittering, teeth bared. He slammed Sheilan's wrists against the bed.

"Don't you dare move them," he threatened. "Don't you fucking dare."

Shielan obeyed, but brought his legs up; he flashed his teeth triumphantly as Marin groaned, unprepared for the new depth. Fenris tried to mirror his more urgent thrusts and felt an impossible pressure building beneath his skin. Imagining himself in Shielan's place turned him feral; he savagely bit a finger, and the iron tang of blood had him jerking harder than before. His tongue flicked at the wound while he watched Marin's thigh muscles work. He was much -  _much_ \- stronger than he looked.

But without warning Marin pulled back, and pulled out almost entirely. Fenris could see the glistening length of him, and imagined what it felt like to be teased with only a throbbing head. The man's smile was wicked before he scraped his teeth across Shielan's exposed neck. His lover whined, which only made him grin wider. And in a cruel move that nearly had Fenris hunched towards floor, Marin shoved back into Shielan while sinking down to bite his neck.

They all groaned.

Fenris matched every stroke, and he realized with a feverish gasp that Marin's teeth were  _still on Shielan's_   _neck_ while he fucked him. With a growl into tender skin, Marin fell into a ruthless pace that Sheilan could only arch into and beg for. 

Fenris jerked his head towards the ceiling as he rocked back into the chair, stroking himself because he could do nothing else. He could feel the floor shake and heard agonizingly wet sounds of a hole being filled. He wished with all he had that it was _his,_ wanted to get pounded into the bed until he cried, wanted so badly to be rendered boneless and trembling and weak. He knew they were coated in sweat, smelled every bit their want, tasted blood in his mouth, and heard that glorious " _please - please - please"_ to the rhythm of the slapping of skin and -

Like the calm before the storm, his pleasure stopped building for a single heartbeat. Marin wrenched an earth-shattering cry out of Shielan and like a tree in an empty field, Fenris was  _struck_. 

He snapped taut, as white-hot ecstasy crackled down to toes that flexed from shock. He could feel thick ropes of seed spurting out of him, and smell its sharpness. A violent burst of color behind his eyelids rendered him dizzy and desperate and  _high._ He tried to open his eyes once - to watch Marin take his pleasure and Shielan give it, _shout_ it - but the stars still clouded his vision. Not that he needed to see; he could sense them enough. Passion still radiated off their bodies and his skin prickled so much that it hurt.

It took a moment before he realized that he'd been groaning nonstop.

With a final wring of his cock he lurched forward, hand covered in the fruit of his labor. He did not get to enjoy the feeling of satisfaction for long. It only took the sight of Marin licking Shielan's ear before his cock began to stiffen.

As if he'd never touched it at all.

Despair burst within his chest like _gaatlok._ With a wretched sob Fenris rose and grabbed his sword and gauntlets and was _pulled_. Not in the direction of the breathless lovers who stopped to stare at him ( _just like old times_ , he thought bitterly) but the door, as fast as he could. He nearly slipped on his spilled seed but couldn't stop to care, couldn't stop to wipe his feet, couldn't look back. All he could do was run as far as he could from the truth that still gleamed wetly on the floor and was hardening in his trousers (still unlaced, still covered in seed) as he fled. 

The lights in the corridor seemed bright as the sun and just as unyielding. The chorus of people getting off seemed more cacophony than symphony and he tried fervently to shut them out. He could hear lute playing and some Marcher shouting in the distance, but all he saw was that landing, that corridor, that door. He stopped for nothing. Not even for the host of prying eyes that bore into him as he danced around tables and people and the truth. The truth of what he had been, what he was, what he would become.

It was not until the cold night air slammed against him that he lost his breath and himself.

Fenris had gotten up too quickly: the desperation-fueled burst of energy was enough to get him out of that room, but no further. His heart threatened to break out of his chest; he could feel every pulse, hard and fast, and he shook as if feverish. He sought safety in the shadows. Stumbled into it, practically, clutching and gasping for air, until he found a wall to lean on behind an abandoned cart. Every single vendor was gone. But the air was still thick with dried lotus leaves and did little to help him regain his balance. His mind raced, and left little room for any other sense but panic. His weapon and gauntlets fell out of his hands but he didn't care. He was too weak for it to matter.

He had just begun to recover his breath when he finally heard the thud of heavy footsteps coming towards him, much too late to get away. City Guard, more like than not, to inquire after his ruined appearance. He searched numbly for an excuse; in his desperation he prayed that it was Donnic, no matter how much shame it would cost him, so that he could say his piece and be on his way.  

But it wasn't. Nothing came to Fenris easily.

"Saw you come out the Blooming Rose," the Coterie thug in front of him drawled. "Did the pretty lad spend a pretty sovereign to get his cock wet?"

"Look at the cum on 'is trousers," another voice said. "Couldn't even clean hisself up, filthy fuck."

He couldn't move from his position against the wall. The outline of another man, much bulkier than the oaf before him, shifted closer from his right. He was trapped, and vulnerable, and covered in his own seed. Alone.

His laugh was hollow, and tasted sour in his mouth.

"If I might make a strong suggestion," he offered derisively, "kindly fuck off." But they only snorted and took up arms, impervious to his words. Tired, cum-covered elves made fools, not foes. 

"Can't. See," the first one shrugged as he drew his sword, "that coin purse of yours looks mighty heavy. Full of sovereigns, no doubt. And seeing as you spent a few on a whore or two, I reckon you can part with it."

"So hand it over," the other snarled, "or you won't have a cock to spend it on."

Fenris closed his eyes and sighed. He went through the motion of unhooking his coinpurse from his belt as he called upon the lyrium in his skin. He smiled at the irony: actually, he wouldn't have minded having his cock lopped off _all that much_ , although he didn't tell them this. Didn't tell them about his "magical fisting thing" either.

So when he lifted the coinpurse up in offering to the man at his right, he lit up like a torch and phased through the bastard's chest with his free hand. His heart felt good against Fenris' palm, so soft and and endearing that he clenched to feel it more. He waited patiently to hear the clang of a sword falling onto cobblestone before he let go. He withdrew his hand with a disgusted noise as the body collapsed on the ground. He remembered the thug in front of him and waggled his bloodied fingers at him, taunting.

"Surprise," Fenris said dryly.

The first man swallowed hard and backed away, facing him so as not to be felled by a fist to the back. "I d-don't know what the fuck you are," he stammered, eyes wide. "But you can keep your coin." Fenris could only look at him while the heat that his exhaustion had masked came pushing back up with a vengeance. 

He was no longer hungry, but starving.

Without thinking Fenris surged forward to press his lips against the man and  _pulled_ , drinking from him as if he were a tankard. His lips felt as if they were struck by lightning: the life flowing out of the Coterie thug and through his lips ripped through him, and threw his mind above the clouds. The life _sang_ to him, and he drank it up with a greed previously unknown. The taste was so much sweeter than anything he'd ever had that his eyes stung with tears. Not that he could register it. His mind was blank - without a single thought or feeling that wasn't about becoming full.

His mind returned to him once the corpse fell to the ground with a thud. A husk, devoid of all the life Fenris had just taken from it. Horror seized him, fast-moving and complete. Then came disbelief. It was impossible that the dead man could be as white as a sheet, well before the corpse had gone cold. There was no way his lips could be that blue. That Fenris could look at eyes that saw nothing and find not a single fleck of color in those irises. It was all a hallucination. It had be be false.

But the feeling of satiation that unfurled in his chest? That was real.

So he ran. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, through the Red Lantern District, through streets that rote memory guided him through, towards home. 

And that time, he didn't stop.


	4. Chapter 4

_Her skin is smooth, like pebbles at the bottom of a stream. Yet softer than a pillow stuffed with downy feathers. Neither of which Fenris appreciates as he makes piecemeal out of her clothes._

_"You're a lot more..._ savage _...than my usual," she murmurs idly, raising her hands over her head. Fenris' fingers work through her bindings._

_He doesn't smile. "I am not your usual." It is not a question._

_"No, not at all," she says, thinking it an inquiry. A pretty Marcher woman, one of the vendors selling fruit at the bazaar. Long auburn hair, ruddy pink skin that flushed easily when he looked at her. He'd been admiring her apples, and she'd been admiring the greens of his eyes. "Just like "Gran Smythe apples," she says, and hands him several. He eats one in front of her. Slowly. Her eyes trail his jaw as he works it, his throat as he swallows bites of apple down. Juice dribbles between his fingers and he flicks his tongue at them, licking until they're all clean. He knew that by the time he'd finished,_ he _had become_ her  _apple._ _  
_

_Which was exactly what he wanted._

_"Bed," he rumbles into her neck. "Now."  He uses his hips to guide her towards the four-post bed and does not think of how it came to be in his bedroom. Does not think about where those sheets came from as she lowers herself down onto them. Nor whose head was on that pillow once. Now was not a time to be considerate, and he can't be, not when she smiles like that and her breasts hang heavy like ripe fruit ready for picking and -_

_"Well?"_

_He'd been staring at her, not realizing that the seconds were ticking by. "Are you still hungry?" she asks, spreading her legs wide. He smells her arousal and it is_ heavy _, smells as sweet as an orchard to his lust-sick nose. And he finds that yes, he_ is _hungry. How considerate of her to ask._

 _Her sighs are breathy. His tongue is slow, probing, just as he knew she'd expect from the way he ate that apple. And the Maker knows he would be as thorough. He'd removed his jerkin but his leggings are still on, much to his regret. He can feel that part of him begging to bury himself in her, sow the seeds of pleasure so that he can harvest every last moan she had left. He is a one-time farmer, but he_ is  _thorough._

_And her apples had been tasty, after all._

_Her voice is light and airy while she whispers something to him, but he can't hear - not with his ears partially plugged by her thighs. But then she's brushing his hair back and she reaches for his tattoos and -_

_He pulls back, indifferent to her whine. "Don't," he says. Those seeds had been growing in her, and she looks down at him, distracted._

_"What?"_

_"Do not touch my tattoos," he warns her. "Do not run your fingers alongside them." She pouts a little, and her lips are so pretty that Fenris almost considers letting her touch one of them for a second. Almost._

_"Do they hurt?" she asks, lash-fringed eyes so wide that he knows she means no harm. He doesn't answer right away. Fenris parts her folds and resumes his work, more laborious now, until she forgets her question altogether. A bud of pride swells up in him - it doesn't take that long before she's bucking her hips uncontrollably and clutching herself._

_He does answer her question, though. He remembers the symbols that Hawke taught him and writes them on her labia with his tongue._

_A - L - W - A - Y - S._

 ***

_"I missed you," Hawke says. His hands have grown stronger since they held Fenris, whose face can't help but let a smile break through for once. He takes sanctuary in Hawke's embrace, in the scents of elfroot and burning wood. Once, Fenris wondered why Hawke smelled like burning wood at all - he was a mage, not a woodworker - but in this moment, skin against skin, he finds that it does not matter. Hawke smells like burning wood because wood burns in hearths. Hawke smells like burning wood because he is home._

_"I missed you too," Fenris manages before he cannot help but go in for another kiss. "Let me show you how much."  Hawke's eyes are the only bright thing in that Maker-forsaken mansion and Fenris loves it, loves the way he lights up any room he walks into simply on the strength of who he is. It is much to his regret that he cannot look into them while his nose rubs against Hawke and he tastes - tea? when did he start drinking that? - on Hawke's tongue. But he is easily comforted by the way that his lover gracefully guides him towards their bed._

_"You've shown me enough," Hawke laughs. "Just...come here. Please." But Fenris can't help but raise up and caress those strong shoulders;_ stronger _, since the time when they shrugged forward as if trying to protect Fenris while they slept. Nor can he help pushing Hawke gently onto the bed, nor ignoring the quizzical expression on his face while he kneels._

_"I shall endeavor to 'come here' when you've come," and he taps his own lips, "here."  And if Hawke's eyes darkened after his lusty promise (when had he gotten so good at sweet talking? he wonders), Fenris never catches it. His only focus is Hawke's belt, Hawke's trousers, Hawke's smallclothes. They form a puddle of fabric on the floor which he ignores in favor of Hawke's cock, hot against his tongue._

_Fenris manages to torture Hawke for a few minutes that way, at least._ _He can hear Hawke clutching the sheets and would smile around him if he could. "Andraste's flaming knickers," Hawke groans. Fenris expects him to utter blasphemes against Andraste while he moves his mouth to attend to_ that place _beneath his balls._ _But_ _Fenris does not expect strong hands to reach down and seize his hair. He does does not expect to be pulled up until his arms end up draping around strong shoulders. And when Hawke tips his chin and Fenris sees the roaring hearth in his gaze, he does not expect_ safety  _and_ relief _to be mixed up in his desire. His lust._

_His hunger._

_His lips press against Hawke's and_ fasta vass _, they're so delectable that Fenris_ pulls _._ _He is the thirsty child at a public Minrathous fountain, drinking and not caring how much of a splash he makes as he rejoices in no longer having to run dry. He is thirsty and hungry so he drinks and he drinks and he drinks and there are hands clutching his back -no,_ bones _, bones scrabbling desperately at his skin because Hawke is_  -

***

"FENRIS!" 

He nearly killed her. 

Aveline had been towering over his bed while she tried to wake him with her words. Fenris awoke with a roar, and leaped out of bed glowing so brightly that Aveline swore and jumped all the way back. She nearly fell into Isabela, who'd had the good sense to sit patiently atop the hacked-up dresser, the one with the dagger stuck in it. He kept planning to remove that, until one day he no longer cared.

"Any closer, and my fist would have been in your chest!" Fenris hissed.

"Well, you shouldn't sleep so heavily," Aveline retorted, tucking her hair back into place. "I wouldn't have had to get so close if only you - _by Andraste_." Her hands flew to her eyes as battle-rush turned into the deep flush of embarrassment. "Fenris. Please." 

He was standing before them completely unclothed; in his alarm, he had not bothered to cover himself. Not that he cared. It was his prerogative to sleep in the nude, as what passed for sleepwear in Kirkwall made his tattoos itch.

Isabela smirked as he snatched the sheets off his bed. He worked them around his waist while Aveline averted her gaze, muttering something about wearing clothes.

"Tried to warn her," Isabela snickered, twirling a blade with jeweled fingers. "But you know our Aveline - hard arse, hard head."

"Shut up, whore-"

 _"Don't_." 

Isabela and Fenris looked at each other, sharing bewilderment like they had that word. The Rivaini's amber eyes flashed a question that Fenris decided to table with a shrug. She quirked her lips but turned back to Aveline, slanting her eyes.

"It's a bit too early for the 'whore' talk, big girl," Isabela continued thinly. "Also, I might start charging you for the ability to say that." But Aveline had lowered her hands and was busy looking back and forth between the two as if they were a pair of her suspects.

Which, considering their past endeavors, they may well have been at some point. 

"Did you two -"

" _No._ " 

"Get on with it," Fenris huffed, sinking back onto the bed as his battle-heat cooled down. He knew better than to ask how they got in. "There had to be some reason for you to break into my abode and wake me at this dreadful hour."

"It's _noon_ , Fenris."

"Precisely."

"Now is  _not_ the time to be cheeky," Aveline said, no longer his comrade but Kirkwall's Guard Captain, a member of Kirkwall's Finest. "I knew that you'd be heading to the Red Light District, but I didn't think you'd make a mess over there."

With flash of panic he remembered the manner of his departure. He knew that his...satisfaction...with the services rendered had been incredibly if not disgustingly obvious, but had not considered the possibility of running out of a brothel covered in seed being some manner of crime. 

"The Blooming Rose," he started. "In my defense-"

"How can you justify not one but  _two_ dead bodies next to  _your_ sword and  _your_ gauntlets?" Aveline's face was growing impossibly red now, redder than the so-called Kocari apples at that fruit stand. The vendor of which, as his morning wood calmed down, he passionately _did not_ wish to think about. He tried to hone in on the scolding tone of Aveline's voice as she chastised him.

"...and  _worse_ ," she was saying, "you left your new signature on one of them. Knight Commander Meredith is involved now."

" _Vishante kaffas_ ," Fenris hissed. Any relief that he might have felt sizzled away as he envisioned that woman knocking down his door. "I only left two dead bodies on the ground, nothing more. It's not even a Tuesday."

"Yeah, but _you_ try explaining a hole the size of a man's fist in someone's chest and a corpse so white someone mistook it for a statue left behind as a prank. Try explaining it, but without ever using the word 'magic' or 'mage.'"

Anger kindled itself within him. "I'm not a mage. I did not ask for this."

"By the M- yes, I _know_ , Fenris," Aveline snapped. "You didn't ask for the lyrium tattoos, and you didn't ask to get bitten by a horny demon. But you have  _got_ to get your act together. The only reason you're not locked up with the Templars right now is because your sword and gauntlets were missing by the time we returned to the scene."

Fenris shot back up, holding the sheets to his waist. "What do you mean, missing?!"

"Gone, as in, no longer there," Isabela said casually, sheathing her dagger. "Someone nicked them. Probably thought they were worth something."

Fenris rounded on her. "They  _are_ worth something. Those gauntlets are worth a few sovereigns. And _th_ _at sword_ was one of the Blades of Mercy!"

Isabela froze.

"Oh, shit," she muttered, as Aveline frowned. "Blades of Mercy?"

"Yes, one of the rare old swords crafted on behalf of Archon Hessarian, in Tevinter," Fenris explained. "One of the very last, still in good condition."

"So, an heirloom. You've been wielding an heirloom."

" _Hawke_ gave it to me."

Aveline sighed.

"I'm sympathetic, but I don't know what to tell you, Fenris," Aveline continued. "I can't help you investigate this, nor should you try, because someone _will_ link those two deaths back to you. Buy a new sword, buy some new gauntlets, and mind yourself." The Guard Captain's eyes were glassy, as if she'd been woken up earlier than her normal hour just before sunrise.

Fenris stroked an ear distressingly as he weighed his options. If it was taken by anything other than a common thief, there was no way he could possibly get the sword back. It could be on its way to Orlais to hang on some chevalier's mantle, for all he knew. But it was a gift from Hawke. It had been one of the few things Fenris had in his possession that reminded him of the mage who convinced him, slowly, that magic had not quite spoiled everything.

And after last night, he could never hold Hawke again. Could he really afford to lose  _that_ , too?

"I'll try not to tip her off."

Aveline growled her frustration. "I'm not bloody joking. If you leave bodies like that again, Knight Commander-" she lowered her voice, forgetting they were indoors - "Knight Commander Meredith is  _crazy_. You do not want her attentions. At _all._ If that woman takes an interest in you, I can't shield you from the consequences." _  
_

"You do not need to shield me," Fenris said heavily. "I will try not to kill so conspicuously."

"See to it that you don't."

She straightened up. "I need to go. I'm sorry you've had such a shit time of it, Fenris, I truly am, but...be careful. For all of us." With a nod to Isabela, she left. 

The pirate queen waited until the door clicked shut before casting off all amusement. The concern writ all over her eyes and mouth seemed out of place, and she crossed her arms beneath her chest.

"You need to talk to Merrill," she said firmly.

"I'm not consulting the blood mage."

"Andraste's flaming tits, Fenris, really? She probably the only person in Kirkwall who you can safely talk to about - all of  _that_ ," she said, waving her hand at his groin - "without ending up in the Circle for study or somesuch. She knows a lot more than you think."

Fenris leaned forward, easing his head into his hands. "I am sure she's rather knowledgeable. I never questioned that. I only question what she'd do if she wasn't in the company of you or Hawke." 

Isabela made an aggravated noise.

"I knew I should've brought that bottle of wine to soften you up. _Fenris_ , sweet thing, you offed someone last night _with your lips_ because you don't know how to handle this incubi thing."

"How do you know what I did?" he asked sharply.

"Because  _I_ talked to Merrill about what would happen if last night didn't work," she shot back. "And you may never know how to get a hold of yourself if you don't talk to her. Shit, you could end up giving someone the kiss of death in the middle of the day or something and then what? Are you going to just fight with the City Guard or the Templars until they kill you?"

"No."

"Then?"

Fenris recalled the dream that Aveline had unwittingly (and mercifully) interrupted. He slipped a hand behind his back and found the skin smooth there, free of bruising or scratches. But he could re-envision the way Hawke's fingers turned into skeletal talons, the way him clawing at his flesh hurt in a way that turned Fenris on. He remembered the way Hawke tasted when he was stripped down to nothing but pure essence, and his hunger threatened to return just at the thought.

It took little to recall the way that he kept drinking, and didn't stop.

Fenris ran his fingers through his hair uncomfortably. "I do not like this."

"Yeah, well." Isabela looked away. "Sometimes, you do things not because you want to, but because you need to. I have more stories about _that_ than Varric."

They sat in silence for a moment. Fenris could see her reaching for something quick-witted to say, anything that could cut the tension between the two. If there was any moment to bring up their exchange the night before, it was then. Before she deflected and the moment passed. Again.

"Isabela," Fenris started, "About last night-"

She turned her head back towards him. He had fully expected her to cut him off, but she simply looked at him expectantly. Unprepared for her full attention, Fenris found himself squirming slightly under the weight of her amber gaze. But it had nothing on the weight on his chest.

"I...I thought about what you said. And I am sorry."

The Rivaini restricted her surprise to a raised, slender eyebrow. "For?"

"For all the jests I've made. About you, I mean. I wasn't thinking about whether it hurt, and I should have. I assumed that it didn't bother you because you always seem so..." he searched for the Common word. "Unshakeable."

Isabela shook with a small laugh. It seemed to come easily to her, like steering a ship or searching a fallen foe. She unhooked a leg and let it dangle freely from the dresser.

"Well. Where I come from, you don't last very long without armoring up somehow." 

"Rivain?" Fenris asked.

"Mm." 

He didn't mean to ask after personal details of her life, or wax intimate, and yet: "would you mind if I asked where?"

But she simply shrugged. "This little no-name village near Dairsmuid. Where all the unmarked go when they've dishonored their clans. Or something."

He knew nothing about Rivain. Not really, only that there were pirates and a Qunari settlement somewhere up north. And he wanted to ask what it was like - Isabela was born there, so she'd have to know - but he kept his mouth shut. They were all exiles in one way or another. There was probably a reason that she left and never came back.

He had not realized that enough time had passed as to be awkward until Isabela cleared her throat.

"I enjoy chatting with you, Fen, but that's quite enough of Story Time With Isabela. So. I'll be off. I can hear Corff whinging about my absence all the way from here." She hopped off the dresser. "Anyway, I'm glad that you're going to see Merrill. Good on you." 

"I never said such a thing."

"Of course you didn't! Which is why I _won't_ go ahead and tell her to expect you sometime this afternoon."

Fenris groaned. "Fine, so be it. You have me." 

"Do I now?" Isabela quirked an eyebrow. "Better not tell Hawke."

He blanched. Isabela's laugh was as loud and clear as the Chantry bells. 

"Sweet Maker, you're like a stuck rudder!" she giggled. "I'm starting to agree with Anders about you needing a good lay."

Fenris flopped back onto his bed, trying his best to scowl and failing. He heard Isabela pause just at the door before turning back to him, smiling.

"Ah. By the way, Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"Apology accepted. " She winked and slipped through the door.

And when he was alone, the weight of it all could have crushed him into the mattress. He'd lost his sword, his gauntlets. He'd lost his dignity, and he most  _certainly_ lost Hawke for good. None of those things could be easily replaced. If at all.

The ache of his tattoos became unavoidable then, and he found himself bending over to grab one of the bottles of red beneath his bed. _What else will this demon's bite cost me?_ Fenris thought bitterly. He wrested the cork off and took a deep swig, only to be disappointed by the flattened tones. He thought of the night before and almost tossed the bottle aside.

_What else do I even have left?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **shameless cross-promotion:** Like Fenris, we don't have a lot of knowledge about what Rivain is like. Have you ever wondered what Rivain might _probably_ be like besides pirates and Qunari? Wondered about what the hell happened to trigger that random Dairsmuid codex in Inquisition? I've got a fic for that. Keep tabs on _[Blood and Ashes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5217098/chapters/12028895)_ if you're curious to see one interpretation of Rivaini society, politics and culture. As it happens, three of the characters in this story will be making a cameo in there, also!


	5. Chapter 5

It was after an hour of drinking and deliberation that Fenris decided that he would go visit the damned blood mage, after all. 

It wasn't that Merrill was an entirely abominable person. She wasn't. But she was a mage, a rather powerful one, and she often seemed completely aloof to that fact. For all the knowledge that she carried around in her mind, she seldom appeared to understand its weight. Had Fenris been literate, he would have made far better use of that information than investing countless hours in a possessed mirror. There were more important things than relics of the past.

 _Isn't the Blade of Mercy a relic of the past_? part of him asked.  _Like your past with Hawke_ _?_  

He decided that didn't count. 

And his desire to recover the sword was a far different matter than the resurrection of an Eluvi...Eluvian. It wasn't something he'd found haphazardly - it was an intentional gift, something that Hawke could easily have kept for himself or pawned off for quite a bit of coin. But he knew that Fenris would appreciate it, even if he didn't know what it was at first. Hawke was considerate and thoughtful in all the ways that Merrill was not.

That, and she was a blood mage. And he  _hated_ that.

The Magisters all used it, blood magic. Oh, they would publicly denounce it - would even go so far as to render accused Magisters Tranquil - but the truth was hidden beneath robes or carefully hidden from the view of houseguests. Danarius had plenty of slaves that he used to that end, and the only reason that Fenris had been spared that was because of the lyrium. He could never decide which was a kinder fate for long. On the days that his markings wracked him with near-blinding pain, he was certain that being a thrall was a far better fate. That he had to think of it as a more agreeable bargain at all curdled his stomach.

But he made his way to the Alienage regardless, two hours past midday, because just as mages' lust for power usually killed them, his powerful lust would kill someone else. It was now or never: the humans also locked the elves in once the sun came down, and he wasn't sure he'd have the willpower to go down there come morning. It was another reason that he'd taken the abandoned mansion for himself, despite all the useless empty space. That large iron gate made the Alienage feel like a cage. He'd been in far too many of those. 

And his  _condition_ was just one more, dropping down around him before he could bolt away. He was prisoner to his own body; he could no longer let it waste away from neglect as he'd wished. Which is what he'd originally intended at first: in Tevinter, he'd been through regular and rigorous training with the Imperium's military elites, and was forced to keep a strict diet to ensure his body's optimum performance. Naturally. Next to a short knife and a long stretch of skin, Fenris was Danarius' favorite weapon, and his weapon had to remain polished and sharp. _  
_

Perhaps that was what he'd always been. Something to be wielded, held-

"Ah!"

Fenris' chest crashed into Hawke's with a thud; the man had been turning the same corner from the opposite direction. _Of course_ he'd taken the long route to Lowtown - the one that had him walking past Hawke's estate, to which Hawke was presumably returning after some urgent business. And of course, he would also stumble over his words as easily as he did Hawke's foot. The man had the nerve to look  _apologetic_ about it, to boot. 

"Hawke," he said, flustered, "I should have been paying attention-"

"NO! No, it's fine, Fenris, promise," Hawke waved his hands. "It's what I get for having my head up in the damned clouds. I'm just glad that of all the people to crash into, it was you."

 _Venhedis_.

That damned man was actually standing there, trying to find the words to say to Fenris while he straightened out his robes.  _Hawke_ , the man who'd gone up against the Qunari and came out alive. The one who started out from nothing and became a hell-raising whirlwind of dark hair and snark and  _that smile_ and -

"Look," Hawke said finally, "I know that we haven't had that serious of a conversation since Mum died, but if you need someone to talk to about your whole...situation, I'm here. Alright? You don't have to cope with this all by yourself, even though that's-" he looked away - "kind of your thing."

Fenris frowned. He was right, and Fenris  _knew_  he was right, but it was something he'd only barely begun to admit. Panic flashed across Hawke's face as he took Fenris' expression for displeasure and took a step back.  _  
_

"Oh, shit. I've said the wrong thing, haven't I?" He began turning to leave, rubbing his neck nervously. "I'm so sorry. Let me stop bothering you-"

"Hawke, no-"

"It's fine, I fell asleep at Varric's and I'm still hungover, so I should really go-"

" _Hawke_." Fenris' hand was on Hawke's wrist before he could stop himself. He'd forgotten that he wasn't wearing gauntlets, and hadn't even bothered to purchase another pair, but - for once - he was glad to have been so exposed. Hawke's wrist was bone, for certain, but it was wrapped in muscle and blood and  _flesh_. He held it hard enough that he could feel Hawke's pulse, practically racing, beneath his fingers. 

He looked up to find Hawke frozen, a perfect mirror to the shock that crackled through him. But it faded away to reveal something else - something so solid and calm and _knowing_ that Fenris would have gladly fallen into that gaze. Despite the friction of their collision, it was this moment in which everything finally felt  _still_. 

The distance between them seemed, if only for the moment, a little bit smaller. 

His hand, then fingers, then fingertips dragged against Hawke's wrist until there was nowhere else to go but away. "You didn't say anything wrong," Fenris said. "I just wasn't expecting it. Thank you."

"Yeah...of course." The reddish tinge to Hawke's cheeks was finally beginning to recede. "I'm here. Whenever you're ready."

"Alright."

Hawke nodded matter-of-factly, and started backing away while facing him. "Let's do a job soon? When you're up for it?"

"Wouldn't miss it." 

Hawke's smile could have cracked him in two, and two, and two again.

***

The Alienage was scarce at that time of day, as many of its inhabitants worked elsewhere: in the homes of his Hightown neighbors, in the Mines, in the bazaar. In the Blooming Rose, even. Fenris hoped that he wouldn't have the misfortune of running into Marin on that day, either, but knew better than to hope  _too_ much. His luck had always been notoriously poor. 

The  _vhenadahl_  cast a cool shadow on the Alienage's ground, all misshapen cobblestones that screamed for repairs. Fenris could smell generations of struggle passed on in the form of slapdash recipes, wafting through broken shutters of barely-there windows. A rat, all skin-and-bones and unusually bold in the daylight, skittered across his path before disappearing under one of the  _vhenadahl_ 's roots. Fear was one of the things even the lowest creatures couldn't afford, he realized. 

And then he was at Merrill's door.

Before his knuckles could fall onto the battered wood the door swung open, and he was greeted with a pair of two bright green orbs set in a pale tattooed face. 

"Fenris!" Merrill chirped. "Come in!" She ushered him in with long slender fingers covered in ink. With a sigh, he accepted her courtesy, and hoped that none of his acquaintances saw him step in.

"I haven't had a moment to do any shopping, so my pantry's a bit bare," Merrill continued, closing the door behind him. "Would you like anything to drink? I have some tea, and water. Well, mostly water."

"I am fine. Thank you," he forced through gritted teeth. Isabela kept curious company - himself included - but she reliably came to Merrill's aid and would come after anyone who maligned her. Surely there was something about the woman worth that kind of loyalty. And if Fenris wanted to learn how to cope with his _condition_ , he would have to dig and find some good in the blood mage.

He didn't even bother to estimate how deeply.

Merrill kept a simple apartment, far smaller on the whole than any of the bedrooms in his mansion. He could tell that she had tried to clean up some. Not successfully, though; he spotted loose notes scattered beneath her bed and her writing desk. Fenris pushed down a pang of envy that she could read or write at all. Her bookshelf was so crammed with tomes and journals that she'd begun piling them up on the floor. 

And there was that mirror.

"Ah, I see you've found the Eluvian. Not that it was hiding or anything," Merrill observed. "But don't worry! It's not active. I can't get it to work."

"It's locked," Fenris said absently.

Merrill stopped abruptly, her eyes wider than Fenris could have imagined. "What was that?"

"The mirror is locked. It needs a passcode. You do not have it."

"I've been studying this blasted thing for years, and _that_  occurred to you just from looking at it? How did you know that?"

It had just come to him. Fenris didn't know why: he knew little about Dalish relics, and did not care to find out more. Nor had he learned much about the artifacts that Danarius and his ilk hoarded in triple-sealed vaults beneath Minrathous, even though he could feel their power buzzing beneath the street as he walked around. 

Fenris _also_ knew that some of the objects created by the ancient Magisters were somewhere under Kirkwall. He avoided Darktown because he sensed  _something_ further down, rattling its cage. But he wasn't telling Merrill about this passive ability of his. The last thing they needed was a blood mage ferreting about in old Tevinter ruins, awakening something whose danger she could not perceive. Even worse, she would never stop asking him questions - a fate worse than death.

"I don't know," Fenris said finally. "It was just a guess." But Merrill wasn't buying it.

"You have no magical aptitude. You couldn't have guessed - unless you _do_..." she mused. "Fenris,have you considered the possibility that you are-"

He held up a warning finger. " _Don't_ -"

"Just a thought!" Merrill rushed, taking a step back. "I won't push it. I promise. Although truly -"

"I will only warn you once."

"Oh, fine, don't be so prickly! It's probably bad for your health." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I assume you're here because you killed someone."

Fenris would never get used to her style of tactlessness. "Must you be so direct about it?" he groused.

"It's something I should have anticipated. I'm sorry that I didn't," she continued. "But I did find a desire spirit to consult."

"Merrill," Fenris said, "Do you mean to summon a demon - here -  _in front of me_?" 

The blood mage shook her head. "No, I already spoke to him. Very polite, considering the circumstances, and a lot more helpful than I'd thought. And I have some notes that you can bring home with you. If you have any trouble reading it you can always ask me, okay?"

"Fine." She was unaware of how little he could read, but he was too prideful to admit it to her. "But I'll not likely need it once you get around to explaining my...my condition."

"Right. Sit, then." Merrill ushered him to the chair near her writing desk. The seat was uncomfortably hard, and Fenris found himself tucking one leg beneath another in order to counteract it. Merrill hopped onto her bed, the frame of which was pushed right against her desk.

Merrill hummed thoughtfully. "This is your third week since the bite, just about. It takes a month before all the effects settle in. Have you experienced a sudden heightening of your senses?"

Maker, had he ever. "Yes."

"And this hasn't gone away yet?"

"No, it has not." He could ignore most of it, now, and he was nowhere near as desirous as before. Fenris was grateful that it no longer pressed against his awareness; he had been overstimulated to the point of madness, like a cat that had been petted for too long.

"Well, you don't have a lot of time before you get hungry again," she cautioned. "A few days, actually. Once you've matured as an incubus you can go longer, but never longer than a week or so."

"So if I don't engage in regular intercourse, I'll continue to kill people against my will. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Well...yes. But you won't run out of time as fast once you've become a mature incubus," Merrill answered.  "You'll weaken, first. Then you'll eventually snap and suck the life out of the next person within range of you. The self-preservation instincts of succubi and incubi are really strong."

All the frustration he'd built up became harder to hold back. He'd hoped fruitlessly that the night before had been just a coincidence, and that his hunger was something that he could perhaps get used to and control without giving into it. To know that he would _always_ have to satisfy it - lest he gave someone the kiss of death, most likely an innocent - fouled his mood deeper than before.

"You said that I would simply become sour. You gave me the impression that I would not be a danger to others," Fenris snapped. 

Merrill took a long look at him. Fenris almost snarled when he saw what looked like pity, but her words came out too soft for that.

It was sympathy. The  _maleficar_ had sympathy for  _him_. 

"You have always been a danger to others, Fenris," she said calmly. "All of us are. But if you don't learn how to adjust to this, someone will die, and you won't know who until it's too late."

Fenris immediately understood what she meant.

"Fine." Like many other things about his body's history, he once again had no choice in the matter. "How do I go about this without killing someone unintentionally?"

Merrill adjusted herself and laid a bare arm on the writing desk. "When you're with someone, you can drain them little by little. The more sexual energy exists, the more you can take. You should be able to satisfy yourself from a single encounter if you're careful. Here." She reached out her arm. "Stroke my arm as if I were a lover."

Fenris crinkled his nose as he pulled back. "No."

"It's fine! I'm completely prepared! I've been reading Isabela's friendfiction!" Merrill assured him. "You don't have to look at me if you don't want to. Just imagine that I'm Hawke, and try to draw something out of me really slowly. Slow and steady."

He wasn't doing it.

"For your sake and everyone else's, Fenris."

He  _had_ to do it.

"As you wish," Fenris relented, and closed his eyes. 

***

_They are alone in the dining room of the Amell Estate. Hawke sits across the table from him, smiling. Two empty wine-stained glasses stand next to an even emptier bottle of Aggregio Pavali - his last - but it doesn't bother Fenris a whit. There was no occasion more special than this._

_"It's been a while," Hawke says. "Since we've been like this." He stretches his arms across the table and Fenris aches, because even a table is too far a distance to be kept from his beloved._

_"I know," Fenris murmurs. "I have waited too long for this."_

_With tingling fingers he strokes Hawke's arm and tugs, slightly. Hawke's skin thrums at the touch, and he can feel tiny tendrils of_ something _trickling through them. He lifts his head to find Hawke watching him with flashing dark eyes, skin flush with wine and desire._

 _"We've waited too long for a number of things, don't you think? I'd hate to lose any more time."  Hawke's _smoke-and-honey chuckle pulls all of that energy straight to Fenris' groin. He__ _finds that he's at a loss for words, too, because those tendrils are thickening into ropes of lust. So he pulls more and looks at Hawke, who looks right back at him. "Come hither" is written on those lips so clearly that Fenris can read it without question._

_And so badly does he want to crawl across the table like an animal, taste him and lick him and devour him whole, that his free hand starts straying away from his knee. How many nights had he spent wishing that he was at Hawke's side? Could he even really have counted the times that he'd longed to burn up in the fire of his eyes?_

_"Fenris?"_

_"Mm." Anything the man asks of him, he will give it gladly. His blade, his cock, his heart, his soul. All of it._

_"You can stop now."_

***

And just like that, Fenris was back in the dingy Alienage apartment. He opened his eyes to see Merrill sitting across from him, chest rising and falling as if she'd run recently. He couldn't jerk his hand away fast enough. The urge to wipe his fingers on his leggings was significant, but he only watched as she moved back to her position on the bed. The beginning of small beads of sweat were beginning to form on her forehead, and...were her  _lips_ flushed? 

"It...Dread Wolf take you," Merrill stammered, "Y-you do not need my help."

He stared at her. The disappointment of leaving his daydream was still sinking from his head down to his toes, and his mind still seemed hazy with want.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, tiny braids flying. She ran slender fingers down to her mattress and clenched tightly.

"Hurt me? No, not at all," she breathed. "Quite the contrary. Oh, Creators. Pardon me." Merrill inhaled deeply and looked away, until she was no longer visibly aroused. He'd had a stronger attraction to fruit than he had to her; would such a touch influence  _everyone_ he interacted with?

"Right. So the more aroused someone becomes, the more sexual energy they have that you can safely take," she resumed. "Otherwise they get tired, or just die. So it's really for the best that you kiss and frolic with people who you like, and who like you back." 

Fenris let out a long breath and leaned back into his seat. Hawke wouldn't have him, he was certain of that, meaning he'd have to find others. "So I have to keep finding new lovers, or I'll starve."

"You're a very attractive man, Fenris," Merrill said bluntly. "I'm quite certain you'll be alright."

The daydream about Hawke felt more and more like an impossibility, which darkened his mood further still. But Merrill tugged on a braid as she closed her eyes, pensive.

"Now that I think about it, the desire spirit said that most succubi and incubi _prefer_ to have sex with multiple people. It keeps their energy sources fresh," Merrill mused. "But that's pretty much all he said. I suppose if you're only comfortable getting energy from one person, you could do that. They may experience some non-lethal symptoms, though." 

"Such as?"

"Chronic fatigue, mostly," Merrill said. "They might start sleeping more, even though sleep doesn't really help with this sort of thing. If you get hungry four times a month and you have sex with the same person each time, it'll probably start to affect them. Maybe select a few people and rotate? Perhaps you should talk to Isabela about it. She would help."

"No." He wanted to - Maker knew that he'd dreamed of her sitting astride him, taking her pleasure however she wished - but he hadn't dared. He sensed that line, could see it clear as day in his mind's eye, but had been too afraid to cross it.

"Oh." Merrill shrugged. "She probably would say yes if you asked. She'd do anything to help a friend. And she thinks you're attractive."

"She...called me her 'friend?'" Fenris was stunned. He wasn't sure the pirate had even considered  _Hawke_ a friend, despite returning after the Qunari incident. Friendship just seemed like one more thing that would tie her down, and Isabela had never been about that. Or so he'd presumed.

"Something to that effect. I know that she cares about you. Otherwise she wouldn't have made sure that you tried out my theory." The light suddenly began to fade in her expression as she chased some thought. Fenris watched as she frowned, and folded her hands neatly on her lap. 

"She doesn't trust easily, Fenris," she said, searching him with her eyes. Fenris felt like one of her books, and tried to straighten his spine. As if he could guard himself against being so easily read by a mage who was, admittedly, more observant than he thought.

"I know."

"And she has a good heart," Merrill added. Green orbs became narrow emerald slits. "One that's been trampled on enough."

"I know." He was rising out of his seat when she levied a threat so grave and so _unlike Merrill_ that it stopped him in his tracks.

"If you make her sad, I will haunt you myself. I will make sure you regret it."

He stood. Merrill may not have been the most intimidating elf, but he'd never heard her voice drop _that_ low except when she was about to kill someone. And despite the battle-heat that prickled his palms - he was not in the habit of letting mages threaten him and  _live_ \- he calmed himself down. The blood mage had her loyalties, too, and would defend them as vigorously as he'd defend his. That, he could respect. 

So he nodded, and raised his hand in farewell. "I understand. And thank you," he found himself saying. "I appreciate your assistance." 

"It was nothing," she replied, still solemn. "Let me know if there's anything else you want to know."

Once the door closed behind him, Fenris made his way out of the Alienage and towards the Hanged Man. He needed a drink, preferably several, and far sooner than the time it would take to return to Hightown. The day had been too heavy for him to process sober. The noise of that place was enough to crowd out even the most troublesome thoughts, though. It helped that the Hanged Man always grew more lively as the sun came down. 

And maybe he'd run into Hawke.

The smell of sick and sick-making ale greeted him as strongly as the regulars. He found Isabela in her favorite corner, nursing a drink. Their eyes met; she waved and turned to Corff to ask for another tankard.

"I'll have more of the horse's piss you call ale, Corff," he heard her say.

"You call it horse's piss but you still drink it. Magic word, lady," Corff shot back.

"Pirates don't _have_ manners, Corff."

"Then pirates don't get any ale." 

"Andraste's tits, please?"

"That's the one."

Fenris slid onto a stool next to her, shaking his head with amusement while Isabela smirked. The bartender returned with a drink and placed it in front of Fenris, grumbling. "Thanks, sweetling," Isabela called after him.

"Yeah, yeah." 

"So. You talk to her?" she asked, turning to Fenris. Her face pinched in from trying not to cringe as she sipped her ale.

"I talked to her."

"Good. About time you did something to help yourself." Isabela's eyes softened a little bit, and Fenris knew she'd meant it kindly. And in that moment, he knew that he wasn't going to ask her to help him with his appetite. 

Prior to meeting Hawke, he'd had a few traveling partners, but none of them were even remotely concerned about his well-being. And the Rivaini seldom did things that she considered a waste of time. If she was dragging him out of his house and breaking into it because she actually cared about how he was holding up, then it meant that she considered  _him_ worth her time. So he'd take her friendship, and offer his own in return, however much it was worth. 

Perhaps he wasn't quite alone, after all. 


	6. Chapter 6

It happened while Fenris was in Lowtown purchasing a new sword. 

He'd just purchased his gauntlets, much better-fitting than the ones that he'd lost, and was bartering with the weapons dealer. Mercutio was a shrewd man, but reasonable if you knew how to talk to him. He would give you little words to latch onto while he spoke. Small holes in his merchant's armor that you could use to bargain him down to a better price for his wares. Those who didn't know walked away paying far more for their items than they were actually worth. But you couldn't say that Mercutio wasn't fair. He gave everyone a chance to catch him before he got away with their coin. 

And Fenris had been admiring a new greatsword, allegedly forged in Nevarra (code for "Wycome," he learned), when he noticed a curled up leather object on the table. Upon closer inspection, he found it was a  _flagellum_. 

"Ah, I see that you've taken an interest in my newest piece! All the way from Tevinter, this one." Mercutio's eyes glittered with all the potential coin he thought he'd make off Fenris as he took the whip into his hands. With a creeping chill, Fenris knew that he wasn't lying.

"Interest is not the word that I would use," Fenris said carefully. He reminded himself to take deep breaths as Mercutio unrolled the thing with practiced hands. The full-bodied hum of the bazaar melted away, to be replaced by deafening silence parted only by the merchant's voice.

"Curiosity? Fascination, perhaps? A number of words could be used, my friend, but  _adoration_ is the word that you'll end up using once you see how this performs!"

It was like being stuffed into a narrow closet. "That won't be necessary-"

" _Nonsense_ ," Mercutio asserted as he gestured for others to give him room. He raised his arm. "Never let it be said that Mercutio doesn't show his wares' true worth before the sale!" _  
_

_Crack._

***

He came to much later in Hightown, back at his mansion. Multiple sets of eyes pressed upon him and, as he opened his own, he found a bronze-skinned, red-haired rogue standing over him. 

"Thank the Maker," Sebastian said. "I came as soon as I could." 

"Don't look at me," came a voice from near the dagger-stabbed dresser. "I didn't stop by the Chantry on the way here."

"Why am I here?" Fenris instantly cursed the decision to sit up, as the ceiling seemed to fall squarely upon his temples. He massaged them feebly as he looked around: Isabela took up her favorite spot atop the dresser; Sebastian had only taken one step back, and made Fenris' head spin with the heavy incense coming off his Chantry robes. Varric was anxiously stroking his crossbow at a safe distance and Aveline was stiff as a plank, standing next to -

Next to Hawke.

 _Venhedis_. 

"You sort of...went full berserker," Hawke said softly. His eyes were tight with worry as he shifted his feet. "At the bazaar."

"That weapons dealer was doing a whip demonstration when you lunged for his throat," Aveline added, crossing her arms. "It took five guards to try and get you off him, and they almost failed until one of them knocked you out. You're very lucky he's not pressing charges." 

" _He's_ lucky?" Varric scoffed. " _They're_  all lucky that they still have lungs to breathe with. Elf's gotten stronger since that demon bite bullshit." His voice softened considerably as he turned back to Fenris and drew closer. "You alright, Broody?"

It all came flooding back to him, then. The braiding on that monstrous object betrayed its origins: someone  _stole_  one of Danarius' whips and sold it to a fence, there in Kirkwall, and it found its way into Mercutio's hands just to taunt him. It was the same kind of whip that Hadriana would use to break the will of other slaves when she couldn't shake his. On countless occasions he'd been made to watch as the whip bit unwilling skin until it wept deep, red tears. He would watch on, helpless to stop her, but equally unable to stop pushing back against her. His struggle with Hadriana was one of the few things that Danarius would allow: it "made her stronger," he claimed, and he'd found great amusement in starving the apprentice of his approval. So he let Fenris rebel, and he let slaves get beaten in the kitchens or wherever Hadriana grabbed them. Pain was instructive, he'd always said, and you could never say that his slaves did not receive a worthwhile education.

In one particularly violent and bloody incident, a slave actually tried to stop Hadriana in a fit of desperation. She took a nasty hit for that, a deep and harrowing wound that later became infected. And Hadriana, ever bitter and ever spiteful, would not allow her to heal and beat any slave caught trying to help her. The woman did not last a fortnight. She did not get a proper burial. And her name could not be uttered by the other slaves, lest they find themselves subject to a far worse fate.

"Zarina," Fenris murmured. "Her name was Zarina." 

"Zarina?" Sebastian lowered himself onto the foot of his bed. Fenris watched him smooth out the wrinkles in his sheets. Sebastian always attempted to impose order upon everything he touched. A bed-sheet was no exception.

"Someone who died on my behalf, at the hands of Hadriana." Fenris hated to say her name even though he'd gotten to hold her heart in his own hand. He found himself forming a fist even now. Sebastian made a move to reach out to him, but thought better of it. Good. Nothing Sebastian could do would be able to calm the utter chaos that roiled in Fenris' heart.

"That is no longer your life, Fenris." Sebastian's voice certainly tried, though. "The Maker saw fit to remove you from that situation, so that you could go on to do greater things. It is behind you."

"It is  _not_ behind me." He hadn't intended to be curt, but he was a wolf caught in a trap, still in the habit of flashing his maw at fools who came too close. "It is clearly still there, sitting in the back of my mind waiting to strike."

"Fenris-"

"You don't have memories like mine," he barked. "I could've handled all of this before my memories began to return. Now I cannot go to a simple bazaar without being bombarded with memories that I no longer wish to have. And I  _hate_ the moment in which I got them back."

Hawke flinched as if struck. No one else noticed but Fenris, and he wished that he could stuff the words back into his mouth. He would swallow every last one, barbs and all, if he could. He would let them scrape his throat raw if it meant never wounding Hawke the way he just did.

"I am a fool," he said - to Sebastian, but mostly to Hawke. "And I am sorry. Thank you for coming here, but I will find some way to manage." Sebastian's smile was neat and carefully arranged, yet soft enough to ease confessors in to spilling out all their sins. But Fenris added nothing further. The list of his sins was long, and would light Sebastian's ears aflame with fire other than Andraste's.

"I would not leave you without an anchor in your suffering, Fenris," Sebastian replied. "You know where to find me. The Maker's love can heal all wounds, if you're willing to receive Him."

"Thank you. I will seek you both out when I am ready." He would never be ready. Fenris knew that lighting a few candles and reciting the Chant of Light would not chase away his inner darkness. Some shadows just couldn't be scattered by light, divine or otherwise.

"You and I have some items to discuss." Sebastian said suddenly, turning to Aveline. "If I might have a word with you back at your office? Something odd happened at the Chantry recently, and Grand Cleric Elthina wishes to express her concerns."

Aveline grunted. "Alright. Fenris, take care of yourself.  _Please._ " And Fenris knew that she was growing weary of repeatedly advising him of the same thing, but couldn't stymie the blossoming irritation he felt. For how useful could such a plea actually be, when the trap of his memories held him hostage? He was getting ready to tell her - to make clear that it was not so easy as taking a hot bath and staying out of trouble. But she was gone, and Sebastian was gone, and all he had left were words leaving an undesirable aftertaste in his mouth.

"Aveline's right," Varric said. "Becoming an incubus has not been easy on you."

Fenris grimaced. "I am aware." But Varric raised his hands slightly, already well-accustomed to his prickliness.

"I know. And not to encourage your alcohol habit, but you're always welcome to come down to the Hanged Man to grab a drink with me when your hands aren't...yanno. Grabbing other things instead _._ " 

Fenris allowed the beginnings of a smile. Varric was a listener, that he knew. He would listen to everything Fenris said with rapt attention and shoo out the people who dared distract him, but still. Like Sebastian, Varric came from a level of privilege Fenris didn't dare dream of. He had suffered in a way that Varric could not possibly comprehend.

But having accomplished his goal, Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder and turned to leave. "In fact, come see me soon, Broody," he tossed in. "I have something for you." 

If it was a bottle of wine, it would've been sitting on his night table by now. "What?"

"It's a surprise. I know you like those." Varric smirked, more smug than a cat before a bowl of cream. "Like I said. Come see me." 

Fenris leaned back against his headboard. "Very well, dwarf." 

Fenris reached up to massage his forehead again, but not before he spotted Varric nudging Hawke. He pretended not to see Hawke's startled expression, nor the way that Varric flashed him a knowing - if not annoyed - look as he raised a warning finger. He was already halfway towards the door before Hawke could follow him. Fenris supposed that was by design: Hawke's feet visibly struggled against the rest of him, keeping him rooted where he stood.

"Do you want me to be here?" Hawke's voice could have tiptoed to Fenris' ears, but his eyes were not filled with such caution.  _P_ _lease let me stay_ , they pleaded.

"I don't want to take up more of your time. I couldn't," Fenris replied.  _I don't want you to leave_.

"It's no trouble. None whatsoever, Fenris. I'm glad that you're doing a little better."  _So let me stay_. 

It was written all over his face, weighed down his feet and his hands, and Fenris desperately wanted to oblige. He wanted Hawke to join him in bed; he'd watch the man take off his armor while he removed his own, just for long enough to be able to explain what happened. Why he walked out of Hawke's mansion more guarded than before, even though the wound he hid beneath it all was nearly fatal. Here was an opportunity to close that respectful distance, despite all of his presuppositions, and all Fenris had to do was take it. Hawke seemed  _ready,_  and Fenris wanted to be ready, and yet-

"Thank you." The words became sped arrows that he couldn't snatch back. "But I would be alone for the day. I need some time to think." 

 _I am not strong enough to face you by myself_ , he thought. 

_Not yet._

Hawke's "alright" was almost as soft as a whisper, but dealt Fenris a glancing blow like a shield. Fenris' heart sank as he watched the gap between them yawn wider. Twice in one go had he hurt the man that he loved. He was sure that one day, he'd push Hawke away for good, but he couldn't stop. He was a seamstress' pincushion with all the needles sticking out. Pincushions were not meant to be brought close.

And he couldn't remove the pins of hate fast enough, besides.

The only person left standing - well, sitting, more like - was Isabela. Hawke noticed this, and he shot a questioning glance at her as he took his leave. Her answer was hidden from Fenris' view; whatever it was, Hawke simply nodded and disappeared without further comment.

On a day in which his troubles didn't entirely cloud his mind, that exchange would have irked him. It seemed as if everyone was fully aware of Hawke's thoughts and feelings but him. That he was partly responsible for this absence of knowledge was not lost on him, but merely locked away. Out of reach. Easy to ignore, on the nights that he was alone and dared to wonder why.

Isabela suddenly rapped her fingers against the dresser in rapid succession. They rippled against the wood in quick waves, shaking his descent into more brooding.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Finger tapping," she said. Fenris tried to guess at her meaning, but found nothing.

"Finger tapping?"

"When you start getting flashbacks. Finger tapping," she replied. "Something that will remind you that you're not in the place where something shitty happened. It helps me a lot."

"You were a slave, Isabela? Before you became a pirate?" Fenris asked. Her eyes snapped shut for a moment before she shook her head, chasing away some ghost before it could haunt her. Her hands twitched, but did not tap.

"Well. I was something, but I wouldn't call marriage slavery," she replied. "Although that idea's a rather new development. Thing is, my husband treated me like a  _thing_ more often than not. While he was alive." Isabela didn't have to elaborate for Fenris to know that she'd killed him, somehow. He didn't blame her. Once you were chained, you'd eventually want to exchange the life of your captor for the key to your irons.

A growl formed in the back of Fenris' throat. "He hurt you."

"I was hurt, yeah. But so long as I didn't ruin his hard-on with my tears, he didn't care. The bastard very nearly 'lent' me to his business associates, too," Isabela said. Fenris shivered; he knew what she'd meant, and immediately stifled the urge to connect to his own experience. He'd had enough for one day. More, and he'd rip apart at the seams with rage.

Isabela's voice carried her anger like the sea did a storm, though, so he let himself get washed up in hers. "They thought me a whore. Made that clearer than Orlesian crystal." She fingered one of her blades. "Pity the asking price for my services was their lives." 

Like with most things, he envied her this. People like them seldom got proper justice, if they got away with their lives at all. Fenris still yearned for the opportunity to rip Danarius' heart out of his little chest, slowly enough for them both to watch. With one of those whips surfacing, he was certain the moment would be within his grasp. He would've prayed to the Maker that he wasn't keeping track of his sister - who he hadn't heard from in weeks, since before being bitten - but never bothered. The Maker was not a god of justice. If He was, he and his family would never have been slaves in the first place. Nor would Isabela have been trapped by her husband.

No wonder she fought so hard to remain free. If there was a Maker, He would not be there to keep her from getting caught up again.

"I am sorry that you suffered so much." His voice filled the silence that filled the room where memories did not. But Isabela merely shrugged. More for her benefit, Fenris realized, than his.

"Don't be. It is what it is. There are days when I can't ride the memories out. But either you cope or you drown." She hopped off the dresser. "Fortunately for me, this keeps me afloat." 

Fenris watched her. He knew that the risk of a flashback would always hang low over his head. He also highly doubted the efficacy of tapping his fingers every single time his memories wrested control of his mind, but would do his best to remember. It was better than nothing. Having nothing nearly got someone killed. Being rendered unconscious was a small price to pay for taking the life of someone undeserving. 

And once he began to think about it, he still had no idea why he hadn't woken up in prison instead.

"Isabela."

"Yes, sweet thing?"

"Who brought me back here?" he asked, watching her for any tells. But Isabela only chuckled.

"I'm not gonna tell you, sorry."

He narrowed his eyes. "May I ask why?"

"If I told you," she smiled, "you'd hate yourself far more than you already do."

"I do not hate myself." But his words were hollow enough that they could both hear a copper drop in them, and Isabela's smile slowly slid into a frown. 

"Yes, you do. You deserve better than that, Fen," she said. "I don't know all what Danarius did to you, but you're not some plaything he can just pick up whenever he wants. You're more than that." Fenris agreed with her, mostly, but she cut in before the rest of his doubt could.

"Even if you get a chance to kill him one day, you won't be free til you believe it, too."

Once she was gone, Fenris slid back until his head rested back on his pillow. He imagined the warmth of Hawke next to him as he spilled out all of his darkest secrets. They were beginning to suffocate him; what haunted him the most was far worse than the Fog Warriors, worse than the scuffles with Hadriana, worse than - worse than -

He tapped his fingers. He felt the pads of them hit his thigh in short waves until his breathing returned to normal, and the edges of his vision were not ringed with black. He felt the firmness of the mattress against his back, too firm to be like the one in Minrathous, and remembered. He was in Kirkwall, and he was not Danarius' slave. Even if the blood of the man's enemies and 'friends' still clung to his fingers long after they'd been washed.

 _I am not a monster_ , he told himself.  _I'm still a person. What they did to me does not have to stick_. 

If there was a way to make sure that those words seeped into the deepest reaches of his heart, he didn't know of one. But he would try.

 _I am worth something_. He would repeat Isabela's words when he was alone, until he could no longer distract himself with arguments for why he wasn't. 

Until those, too, clung to him better than blood.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of a long chapter. With long things in it. 
> 
> I suspect that you won't mind.
> 
> Date updated to reflect the day this chapter was uploaded.

Fenris awoke with a groan the next morning. Of course, given his luck, he would wake up hungry. It was a fact that he could not deny: on any other day, he would not be aroused by the feeling of his sheets against his groin. Not foolish enough to repeat older mistakes he rose, and decided he'd not take any jobs that day. He had other pressing matters at hand.

And as the Maker would undoubtedly have it, it was a Tuesday.

The Golden Key meeting would be that night. After last week's performance he wasn't sure he'd even make it past the front door, but he had to try. He wouldn't have that much trouble finding someone to couple with, but he'd felt the energy there. Anything compared to that place was like flour next to a bowl of sugar.

So when evening thankfully came, Fenris added one additional routine to his bath: Prophet's Laurel, which he let steep in the hot water. The heat brought out a simple sense of contentedness in him as it eased the throb of his lyrium markings. While slinking into the water, it occurred to him that his markings hurt less since he was bitten. Most of the pain that remained could be shoved to the back of his mind and held there. 

After ten minutes of sitting in the tub, however, he reached for his pain and found that none remained. Fenris had purchased Prophet's Laurel because it would perfume his skin, but made a note to procure more later. He had not conceived of a day in which he would be able to live without pain. That it would come at that moment, while he went to deal with a condition that was rapidly becoming part of him, yielded no shortage of irony. That his relief would be drowned out by the roar of his arousal was not lost on him, either.

Fenris opted for simple garb, once dry. He still lacked a sword, and he'd not needed his armor the last time he'd been in the Red Lantern District. Fenris hoped that the black tunic discovered in a cobweb-covered crate would cover his hardness. He decided also to leave his coinpurse locked in a chest beneath his bed. He would make sure, somehow, that he would not need it. 

Once dressed, Fenris moved to depart. He hadn't meant to look at himself in the mirror in front of his bed as he passed it - he'd avoided it for years, having purchased it in anticipation of reveling in what it provided during his moments with Hawke. But Fenris found himself standing before the thing regardless. He was surprised to learn that the the tunic fit better than anticipated despite the thick muscles of his arms, and his erection was successfully obscured.

It was peculiar. No blade. No armor. No gauntlets, although he'd later don simple gloves to cover the markings on his hands. Fenris didn't even have the familiar spikes for comfort, and despite being fully clothed he felt undressed. But he'd made his choices. The Blooming Rose was the best place for him to go at the moment. He couldn't be visibly threatening, not if he wanted someone to get close enough to touch him.

It also helped that he was a little bit attractive, now that he saw himself. Perhaps Merrill was right after all.

Something flashed in the mirror as he turned. He went immediately on alert only to find that it was a blade, the one stuck in his dresser. He padded over to it; the thing's removal was long past due. But without thinking, he let his hand slip. Bright red blood blossomed on his finger, which he brought up to his lips. The tang of it tugged his lips into a small smile, and he ignored the sharp pinch of the wound to seize the blade's handle and pull. 

It came out much more easily than he'd anticipated.

 ***

It hadn't, despite Fenris' rather inappropriate manner of departure the week before, taken too much convincing for Madam Lusine to let him into the Blooming Rose. He was stopped by the two giant brutes once inside but, once Madam Lusine craned her head to see who it was, she called them back. Fenris shrugged them off him as he sauntered over to her counter.

"My sincerest apologies for last week, Madam," he began, "It was my first time, and I was too overwhelmed with emotion. It will not happen again."

She snorted. "What are you here for now, then?"

"I would like to attend the Golden Key meeting being held tonight." Madam Lusine laughed in his face, but reached down for a key regardless. When her hand resurfaced, Fenris noted that it most certainly was not golden at all.

"And why should I let you into the Golden Key meeting, let alone this establishment?" she asked, whipping the key around her finger. Fenris wasn't sure if she was going to taunt him before throwing him out - and with what was at stake, he wouldn't give her the chance. So without a smile he leaned in, close, until he was a hand's breadth away from her face. His voice was too low and soft for anyone but her to hear.

"Because one look at strange white markings on a strange elf," he said, "and your clients will want to come back, every week, in the hopes that I return." He began to slide off a glove. Madam Lusine watched his hand with interest. 

"And as I said before, I am not here to find work," he continued, letting the glove fall. "I'm here for other reasons. But this arrangement will be of mutual benefit."

She said nothing.

"Am I not doing you a favor, Madam?" He lifted his cut finger and sucked on it gently. As he'd expected, energy radiated off her in bursts. "Am I not securing more regular customers for you, simply by showing up?"

"Fine," Madam Lusine breathed. "Two sovereigns."

"None." She opened her mouth to object but Fenris simply looked into her eyes and waited, brushing his hand against her as he put it back into its glove. As he'd expected, heat prickled at his skin. He did not feel guilty. Madam Lusine had pawed at him from the very beginning, most likely because he was an elf and humans  _loved_ fucking people they found strange or exotic. He considered this - feeling her lust, magnifying it for his own purposes - merely turning her fetish to his advantage.

She hissed at him. "Maker take you and your looks. I've a soft spot for you elves." As he'd expected. Madam Lusine pressed the key into his hand, and more of her lust trickled into his palm.

"Downstairs."

"Thank you, madam."

"Go," she scowled, "before I change my mind." 

They both knew all too well that she wouldn't.

 ***

The process of entry was fairly simple, although not much to his liking. An attendant stood near a closet adjacent to the Golden Key room, which was filled with the sounds of people already present. He'd had to give up his clothing - "which will be tagged," the attendant assured him - in exchange for a robe. A curtain was stationed next to the closet to provide the illusion of privacy, but it was futile. The attendant looked down at what broke the smoothness of his robe with quiet appreciation, making him blush.

"Don't forget your ribbons," the young woman advised him, toying conspicuously with her hair. He found her attractive, but knew she wasn't available.

"My ribbons?"

She pointed to an array of baskets on a table. 

"Pick the ones that apply to you and tie them on your wrist," she said. Not that it helped clarify anything. The attendant took one look at his blank stare and went straight into a speech, one that Fenris was certain she'd rolled out multiple times already.

The red ribbons, she explained, represented an interest in men. The blue ribbons represented an attraction to women. Those who were interested in men and women alike wore both ribbons on the same arm. There were also green ribbons for those interested in group sex, purple ones for attendees who enjoyed anal, and yellow, which announced an interest in light bondage. Black ribbons were in the furthermost corner, and represented an interest in choking and other forms rough sex. "To be negotiated between you," she added, "but the harder stuff takes place elsewhere."

"And those?" Fenris asked, pointing to the matching studded bracelets worn by a couple walking into the closet. He craned his neck to discover that it led to another room, much darker, where he could hear the sound of something slapping against flesh. Panic edged to the corner of his awareness but he tapped his fingers against the table. He would have to thank Isabela for that.

The attendant stepped in front of him as he gathered himself. "You'd have to be a Black Key member for that," she said curtly. "Very restricted access." So he thanked her for her assistance, and went inside.

He knew Varric would die laughing if he knew that a rainbow covered his wrists as he walked in.

The room was crowded. It was quite large, and sizable enough to comfortably fit multiple couches and two beds, all of which were occupied. Most people seemed familiar with one another, and some gathered in the center of the room to mingle. Fenris scanned the area; he decided to make a beeline for a corner, where he could watch the others and carefully make eye contact with someone without fear of rejection. Not that he intended to be particularly picky - he was hungry, and here was this feast, right there in front of him. But if he was going to satisfy his hunger, he wanted to do it thoroughly, with someone who suited him well.

There was a cushioned bench pressed against one wall of the corner, but someone had beaten him to it. A woman, curvy from the way her robe filled out, with golden-bronze skin in striking contrast against white cloth. Fenris came to a stop a few inches away from the edge. She caught him admiring her as she turned to look at him, and her lips quirked with mirth.

"May I sit here?" he asked. Hazel eyes assessed him carefully from the safety of an ornate Orlesian mask.

"You may, for a time. I'm waiting for a friend." The accent was very close to Fereldan, but not quite: after spending years around two farm boys from Lothering, Fenris had learned quite a bit about their pronunciation of Common words. He could smell something like Antivan Bluebells in her deep brown hair, and that was  _not_ the kind of scent a Fereldan woman would ever use. Which could only suggest one other thing.

"So. What brings you here from Antiva?"

She went rigid with panic, and Fenris couldn't help but chuckle as he turned to face the room.

"Don't worry," he said, eyes ahead, "I do not mean to pry. I'm simply terrible at smalltalk." This seemed to put the woman at ease, and her shoulders relaxed considerably. Her hair was arranged in a neat braid, which she stroked soothingly.

"This is all because of a dare," the woman said, sighing. "A friend of mine made a bet that I would be 'too much of a sweetheart' to go to an...an orgy." She let the accent slip a little, and Fenris heard the slight roll of the  _r_ in that word. "And I was too prideful to ever lose such a bet, so I agreed to go but...now I'm here," she continued, "and I am at a loss for to do with myself. I brought myself to such a curiosity but don't have the courage to participate. Look at them, over there."

Fenris followed her gaze. A light-skinned, light-haired woman had pinned another woman against the wall. Her mouth opened in what appeared to be a laugh as her fingers slipped beneath the other woman's robe. Her partner for the evening looked strikingly familiar, with long auburn hair; but then the light-haired woman was trailing kisses down her exposed front, and Fenris could clearly see her face. It wasn't the fruit vendor. A pity, because he would not have minded seeing her again. Or tasting her, for that matter.

A small giggle from his side diverted his attentions, and he found the Antivan woman smirking at the space between his legs. "I see that I am not the only one who appreciates the view," she said, hazel eyes sparkling. "I wish that I were in that red-haired woman's place. But I'm afraid that...I will not find anyone to experience that with."

He shifted to look at her more carefully. Despite half her face being obscured Fenris thought her beautiful, and he found himself wanting to unbraid her hair. He imagined what she looked like beneath the robe and his heart began to race with her being so close. There was a certain shyness about her, which he found alluring, but less so than keenness that her posture betrayed.

"I would be more than happy to help you achieve that," he said quietly. He wanted to reach out and stroke her wrist - badly, once he saw that it was covered in a rainbow similar to his - but wouldn't, not unless she accepted the offer of his touch. Much to his disappointment, she shook her head, blushing profusely. 

"Thank you. I am...quite flattered. But I must wait for - for my friend," she stammered. At the same moment, a man with jet-black hair and eyes nearly as dark came sauntering up to them. Fenris noted the red, blue, green and purple ribbons with a smile. He slowly ran his tongue across his lips as the man came to a stop.

His voice was deep. "Good evening," the stranger said to the woman next to Fenris. He locked eyes with him, and it felt like something had been lit within. 

"I couldn't help but notice you once I arrived...might I have a moment of your time?"

Blunt, yet polite. Something he'd not had before. "You'll get more than that, if you wish. If you'll excuse me," Fenris said to her as he rose. The man smirked, and offered his hand. 

He had no idea what he was getting into. He didn't care.

So Fenris took that hand, because he would of course return such gallant manners. But there was nothing polite about the heat that he felt pulsing through his fingers, or the way that he immediately began, with his body, guiding his new lover towards the wall closest to the bench. He could feel the young woman's eyes on him as he pressed himself against the stranger. He tasted like rum and chocolate, an odd combination, but one he knew to be favored by merchants. It would appear that people of different stations attended such a thing, mask or no mask - in fact, most of his neighbors were already there.

"I would have your name," Fenris purred into the man's neck. Two soft hands attempted to grip his back as he nipped even softer skin. "Seven," the man replied simply.

Fenris pulled back and quirked his brow. Dark eyes glittered with amusement. "A nickname."

"And how did you acquire it?" Fenris asked. He gave the man an encouraging thrust against the wall, and felt one of those hands leave his back. It found his and guided him beneath his robe to something hard, and hot, and long. He looked back up to find the man's lips pulled into a self-satisfied smirk.

"Guess."

And that's when he  _pulled_. It was a sensation Fenris could never put into words, not in Common, not while it magnified the feeling of his lips bruised against Seven's. If the way Seven initiated their encounter was indicative of anything, his inviting tongue certainly suggested a surety that Fenris found attractive. His hand ran against Seven's length and found not a single inch of hesitation there before running up the man's thigh. His abdomen. His chest. When he'd had enough of groping him beneath useless fabric, he tore off his gloves and Seven's robe. They quickly dispensed with niceties, clothes being one of them.

"Your markings," Seven hummed, "are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." Fenris did not respond immediately, and chose that moment to seek out his mouth. The thing that grew between them began to burn. Fenris felt its heat flickering in what little space remained between their lips. Power sparked beneath his fingers as they explored new ground.

Seven was well-shaped. His skin might have been soft but his torso was firm, hardened from what Fenris assumed to be years of carrying crates from the docks. He was certainly not a warrior; his arms were too untested and scar-free to suggest anything but a comfortable life. But it didn't matter. He buzzed all the same when Fenris allowed his tongue to sate his curiosities across Seven's neck, shoulders, and chest. And when that no longer suited him Fenris steadied himself on Seven's hips as he lowered himself onto his knees. His lips spelled out a challenge that Fenris would gladly take.

So when Fenris took him into his mouth, he did not play at shyness. In seven swallows every inch of the man was his. The tip of him threatened to trigger the back of Fenris' throat, but he would not forfeit. Not until he was frantically trying to come up for air, and by then he was satisfied with the gasps he heard above him. He loved that could barely swirl his tongue around Seven as he withdrew, then took more. He never stopped until his nose pressed against short curls. Fenris didn't mind the smell of his sweat; it was hard to care about anything while all that energy, so freely given, was flooding to his core. 

Fenris was working his mouth along Seven's length when he heard a soft moan come from the bench. They both looked back to find that the woman was watching them, very carefully at that, with one of her hands buried deep between thick thighs. She froze upon being caught but Fenris smiled. He looked back up to Seven, who eased his eyes across her neck and her breasts and her thighs before nodding.

Fenris patted the space opposite him. She looked down at the markings etched into his bare hands before looking back into his eyes. 

"Come," he said. "Please."

So she rose. Fenris' cock twitched as he watched her breasts move beneath the fabric. Her steps were timid as she drew closer, which did not escape Seven's notice. With a gentle tug he pulled the woman into a kiss, sensual and slow. Fenris would have done the same in his place: dams had to build up in order to break. He went back to tending to Seven's cock with his mouth, to build up something else.

"Hello," he could hear Seven murmur between kisses. The woman was giggling, again.

"Good evening."

"And who might you be?" Seven asked hazily. Robe cords were being untied, and the smell of want became unmistakable.

"I am - Leila," she said, clearly unsure of which name to use. "And you?"

Fenris let Seven slip out of his mouth and into his hand. "The gentleman up there is Seven. A pleasure to meet you, Leila," he said, in a tone like honey poured over gravel. "Join me, and kneel."

Leila flowed like water as she sank to her knees. Her robe parted easily, revealing gentle rolls of skin and a bosom more full than he'd imagined. Her cheeks began to flush, and she was moving to tie the robe back together again. Which he couldn't have, and his hand was far quicker than hers.

"Don't," he said, speaking over her gasp. "Stay as you are." 

Leila looked hesitant, unsure if she should take him seriously, so Fenris leaned in. Her mouth parted with surprise, then hunger, and he could taste strong traces of wine. A sherry, and she'd eaten olives alongside it. Fenris kept a firm hand on Seven while he brought his other up to her chin and held it. He smiled into her lips: it was just what she'd needed, because she fell deeper into their kiss with a moan. 

He was loathe to part from her, but Seven shifted and caught his attention. Fenris brought his cock between them and took him from the side, dragging his mouth from base to tip. Fenris watched Leila expecting her to follow suit and she did: she mirrored him flawlessly, adding her own little flick of her tongue, from the opposite side. Seven reached down to stroke them both as they fell into a comfortable rhythm. He had been right to assume that her keenness would prevail over her anticipation. The little shadow of satisfaction that tickled about her lips made him want to press his against them, over and over.

For the moment, though, he was content to let their mouths meet at Seven's head, tongues laving over it and inevitably over each other. Leila would take his mouth for herself whenever they met. She tasted a little like Seven's salt, then. And he enjoyed how easily he could swallow her pleased noises when his hand stroked her inner thigh. Leila's skin was silk, as were the inner folds that he teased with a finger. He'd reward her with a long stroke whenever she took Seven halfway: the motion made her hum with his cock in her mouth, and the man was audibly appreciative of Fenris' efforts.

Her confidence grew. Fenris removed his mouth to let Leila enjoy the man before them, and she was emboldened with every buck of Seven's hips. She tried to take him fully once and gagged, with a strangled noise so sweet that Fenris' hand was drawn to his own cock. He wanted to unbraid that hair and she let him, until it fell loose in waves around her still-covered shoulders. His fingers gleamed and left traces of her in her hair. She didn't care; his fingers were back at her folds again, and she angled herself so that he could slip inside of her. By the time he'd worked up to three of his fingers Seven began holding her head to him. Fenris worked her and stroked her clit with his free hand, knowing that her throat would flutter around Seven. Who cursed, and held her longer, until tears were streaming from beneath her mask. But she pulled away with a smile, licked her lips, and went back for more. 

After several moments Fenris felt a gentle tug on his hair: it was Seven urging them to stand up, and the three crowded against each other. He was grateful for the increased range of motion: he could cup Leila's ample arse, or hold her by the waist, or stroke the tears away from her cheek. Seven's body was warm against his, which he pressed insistently while the man slid a clever knee between Leila's legs. She let out an impassioned sigh. Fenris did _not_ expect her to begin grinding against it, slowly, until a patch of wetness was left behind as she moved away. Neither did Seven, who wiped it up with languid fingers before placing them in his mouth. 

Fenris could very easily have gotten close to coming from that alone. 

"Your taste," Seven whispered to Leila. "May I have more of you?" And she nodded, much to Fenris' pleasure. So Seven untangled from them long enough for Fenris to take his place. With gentle hands he pulled Leila back until she was flush against him. He couldn't hold back a frustrated noise: she was still wearing the robe that he and Seven had since discarded, and he wanted to feel every inch of her skin against his. 

Fenris gently sank his teeth her neck. He  _pulled_ while he brought his hands over her thighs, over the pudge of her stomach, with a tenderness that made her gasp.

"Please let me feel you," he growled into her ear. "All of you."

Leila let out a long breath as she bent forward, and Fenris bit back an oath as her arse pressed against him. In a few torturous moments the robe was off. At last he could feel the smoothness of her back against his chest, and he moved her hair until it hung over her shoulder. "Beautiful," he hummed appreciatively. He draped an arm around her soft middle while one hand went to part her lower lips. "I would devour you next, if you let me."

"Without question," she answered throatily. "I would gladly let you put that - _oh._ "

Fenris looked down to see Seven kneeling between her legs, holding them apart with his hands while he pleasured her. Leila leaned deeper against Fenris and rested her head against his shoulder, exposing her neck. 

A middle-aged man in a mask came close to them, as if he wished to participate. Seven was unaware, but he felt Leila stiffen against his chest. Fenris growled, not thinking, as his free hand reached for her breasts. The man immediately retreated. His lover chuckled, and relaxed against him once more.

"You wish to have me all to yourself?" she managed, sinking delicate fingers into Seven's hair. Fenris ran a thumb over one of her nipples and she yelped, which turned his grin feral.   
  
"My willingness to share is limited," he replied, toying with her. She went to laugh again, but Seven did something at her part that silenced her with a ragged breath. Fenris went to tease her more when he felt a hand urge his legs wider before reaching for him. It pulled, carefully but urgently, until his cock rested snugly between her legs. Leila was  _wet_ , and feeling her pool onto him made him desperately wish he could sink into her heat. Seven could sense his impatience and laughed.

"Patience," he said. "I didn't forget you." Fenris hissed as a hot, wet tongue ran along the underside of him, and he was too aroused to watch. He snapped his eyes shut and leaned hard against the wall. He believed Seven, who was thorough, and who went places Fenris had entirely forgotten about while one of his hands played with Leila's nub. When she began to keen and relinquished all control of her rolling hips, Fenris could have taken her right there against the wall.

And when she started babbling in Antivan as she came, he did. 

Seven felt the edges of his approaching roughness, and pulled back abruptly as Fenris' arms released their quarry. Not for long, of course. Before she could say anything more he was on her, all lips and teeth and hands. He disregarded the way that the floor bit his knees as he lowered himself to lap at her. She was wetter now, after having come undone, and the taste of her frayed his sense of civility. 

It was with a surge of savage strength that he grabbed her and lifted her up. He did not have to instruct her to wrap silken legs tightly around him, or to ready her hands upon his shoulders. Which was better for both of them: all he could see were her eyes darkening with lust as he pushed into her, slowly. They widened once he was fully hilted inside of her. Leila felt glorious, pure wet heat against his hardened length. Her breath was warm against his face once he started  _pulling_ from her, as if he drew from a well, as he moved. But her arousal was deep, and she bathed him so thoroughly in it that he could have sang. But he wrenched a song out of her, high and pretty, once he began to bounce her on his cock. With a voice like that, he would fuck her until her voice was raw.

 _Not yet_ , he told himself. He was growing hazy-minded as he neared the edge, and his body demanded that he leap.  _Not yet_. 

"We seem to be drawing a bit of an audience," Leila managed. Her hot breath ghosted against his skin and he grunted, bouncing her harder against him as her fingers sought purchase in his hair. "Does that bother you?"

"I couldn't give a fig," he said in a low voice. "Let them watch. Let all of them take in the sight of you ruining me."

And his mouth was too busy searching for hers to smile, despite the way that she shuddered into his words. Nor did he care - her breasts bobbed in time with his thrusts, and every other part of her shook and trembled so much that Fenris began pounding into her, just to watch. Leila was pliant, she was warm - she was  _hot_ , and all he could think about was driving himself further into her until she screamed. 

And then he heard her ask something of him that took the fraying fabric of his decency and pulled.

"Choke me."

"Are you certain?" He got his answer in the form of flashing eyes and a hand stroking his neck. 

"Your hands, around my neck, as you take your pleasure.  _Please_."

It would be rude of him not to oblige her.

It seemed to take forever to disentangle. But as soon as her feet hit the floor Fenris whipped her around, knocking the breath out of her as he slammed her against the wall.

"You know not what you provoke in me," he warned her, breathing down her neck. But she wiggled herself defiantly against him, and there was a fire blazing behind that mask as she turned her head.

"I am aware of it. It would appear that you are not," Leila taunted. "Is that why you hesitate?"

He needed no further assurances. 

Fenris shoved himself into her without preamble, and he silenced her sharp cry with a hand over her mouth. He held it there for a moment while she whimpered, her head bobbing against his palm while he possessed her. He allowed Leila enough room to brace the wall for leverage. Just before she was ready he quickened his pace, until he sent ripples across her body with his thrusts. 

Leila was still whimpering when his hand dragged down from her mouth to her throat, and firmed his grasp once he found the right spot. Fenris snarled as she tightened around him. The friction was going to ruin him, as surely as the distant knowledge that a number of people really had stopped to watch him take her. He retained enough presence of mind to monitor Leila's body, and released his hand once he felt her struggle. Her gasp transformed into a moan, hoarse and deep, and Fenris had to close his eyes to keep from losing control.

Someone was behind him. "As easily as I could get off watching the two of you," Seven said, "I'm beginning to feel like I'm missing out on something."

Leila whined as he slowed down. Fair enough; he  _did_ enjoy both of them, and with one more hard thrust he turned her around. Leila sighed as they parted. His cock popped free, and hung heavy and covered in slick. Leila reached for Fenris hungrily, and hummed into his mouth while something hard, and hot, pressed against him.

"Some other night, I want to take you like you did Leila," Seven rumbled. Fenris pushed back against him with a growl.  He would, without a doubt, find Seven again. Everything from Seven's strong, broad back to his bite-worthy thighs made Fenris ache. He would gladly let Seven take him however he wished, provided he didn't claim the man's body against the floor first.

Fenris watched while Seven seized Leila with his mouth, teeth, and tongue. "I'd like more of your mouth, my lady," he murmured. Leila's mouth was slightly puffy from using it on him before, and it spread into a smile that made Fenris' cock jump. He leaned against the wall and, after bringing her hands behind her back, slowly slid her back down his cock. She bent herself just enough that she could take Seven, who closed his eyes with a smile. Both of them, it seemed, were coming close.

Leila's movements were cautious at first, until Fenris proved that he held her arms securely enough for her to lean further. She proved flexible, and soon she slid back and forth between him and Seven with ease. Her arse bounced beautifully against his groin with a soft jiggle; he smacked it, just to watch it quake. Leila rewarded this by moaning against Seven, whose " _fuck_ " was incredibly loud. In his arousal he grabbed Leila by the hair and yanked, until he was controlling her pace with his grip. She made a pleased noise, and it was in that moment that he realized that their audience had grown, with people reaching into their own robes or facing them as they engaged their own lovers. 

Madam Lusine would be in his debt for a while. 

Fenris couldn't hold back much longer. He  _pulled_ again and this time both of their energies came crashing through him. There was no room to care about anything else; about the way that he tossed his head back, or his uncontrollable groaning, or the way that he began to wantonly grind into Leila without any semblance of rhythm. Seven was murmuring something filthy enough in Common that Leila sounded her pleasure, much to his benefit. Not that he could translate. Not that he could say anything in a language either of them could understand. And he wanted to thank them sincerely, thank Leila for the way that she bounced against him and was slick against his cock, Seven for the way that he urged her on with sharp tugs and - from the looks of it - had lost control of himself, from the way that he clutched feverishly at his own hair as he hilted himself in her mouth and -

This, Fenris realized, was where the Maker was.

He was far higher than any substance could have taken him. Fenris was rendered breathless, burning, and drowning, as life poured into and out of him all at once. He was forced to gasp for air as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over him. He was completely lost at sea, and was still so distracted by Leila clenching against him that he hardly registered the still-leaking cock being pulled from her mouth. He watched her flick her tongue out at Seven, catching as many drops as she could while greedily swallowing them down. 

He felt himself soften inside of her, but her walls still pulsed. Fenris pulled her back towards him and kissed her, passionately, so that she could taste every bit of his gratitude. He relished the sharpness of Seven's seed on her tongue and smiled against her lips. He would smile against her other lips, too, until he could taste her on him again.

Seven seemed to have the same idea. Fenris released Leila and slid down to the floor, turning so that he could devour her against the wall. Their other lover purred against her before bending to roll a nipple with his tongue, and she cried out with surprise. Fenris was envious. He had admired her breasts, but had not seized the opportunity to take them into his mouth. He could see her eyes fluttering shut behind the mask from where he knelt, buried between her legs.

Leila grabbed impatiently at his hair. She said something in Antivan - having long lost the farcical Fereldan accent - and he ravished her thoroughly, relentlessly stroking the space just beneath her clit in the shape of an arch. His seed and her pleasure mixed, and his face was wet, but it didn't matter. He would coat himself with her until she, too, came down from the clouds of her joy.

He unraveled her, in degrees, until she was riding his face without a care in the world (much to his pleasure, he would later recall). She cursed them both in such florid language that Fenris almost stopped to listen.  Part of him became aware of how a hush fell over the rest of the room when her moan shook all the way through him. Her hand held him there until she was shaking through the last ripples of her orgasm, and he chased her stillness with his tongue until it came. Seven was cooing in her ear and stroking her hair as she came down, quivering, and they shortly found themselves on the floor. 

Someone cheered them. A number of people made other noises, as their play had spurred on similar demonstrations of desire, but the three lovers shut them out. They formed a quiet world in their corner that the rest of the room could not penetrate. No one bothered them; after watching them, most were eager to get on with seeking their own pleasure. Which was a relief, otherwise Fenris would have snarled at them until none dared disturb their hard-earned serenity.

He leaned tiredly against Leila, who murmured something in Common that he was still too gone to understand. Seven leaned against the wall on the other side of him, and moved his arm so that it draped across Fenris' shoulders. The kiss they shared was easy, all heat replaced by a familiar warmth as Fenris felt himself become full. The idea of him doing this every week no longer horrified him. Nor was he certain that he'd regret this night the morning after.

Whole minutes passed them by while they recovered together in silence.

"I never caught your name," Leila said idly, stroking his chest. A gesture he permitted: he enjoyed her hands on his skin, and his markings  _still_ didn't hurt. Fenris allowed a lopsided smile.

"I never gave it. But I suppose after growing so intimately acquainted I should tell you," he replied warmly. Seven hummed his approval as he nuzzled against Fenris' neck. Both of them waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts.

 _Leto_ , he thought.  _My name is Leto_. But the name would sound foreign on his tongue, and theirs, and  _Hawke doesn't know it yet_ echoed in the back of his mind. He could feel the beginnings of a distant ache, but his sense of satiation continued to prevail. He would not tell them. Fenris knew the power of names, and he could not give them something that even his beloved had not yet received.

"Fenris," he sighed, closing his eyes. He was beginning to come down, and wanted to savor every moment with his two lovers before they parted ways.

"It's Fenris."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor canon divergence ahead! Also...*clears throat* another long chapter. Apologies.

_Fenris nearly burned to a crisp from all the heat._

_The cool night air offered no respite from the fire that battle-heat left behind, and he ran with the others back to the main camp. He joined them in their whooping as the fog, fast-moving and fatal, whirled along with them. Someone at camp heard their frenzied revelry and started the drums up, beginning a celebratory beat that had the others dancing as they went. Bodies covered in sacred white and enemy's red rushed like wind through the forest. Island ghosts, and Fenris never felt freer than when he haunted their foes alongside them._

_A hand seized his wrist without warning and yanked him back. Fenris lit up like a torch, ready to kill again, only to find his lips assaulted by the warm mouth of another. From the bite of cinnamon bark on that tongue, it was Imala. She pulled back with a grin, sharp teeth glittering in the night._

_"Come away, lone wolf," she laughed. "They won't miss us." She was tugging at her chestband the way something was tugging beneath his leggings, and so he caved. Her long black hair shimmered in the dark as she ran to a tree. Her chest heaved expectantly, like prey waiting for greater jaws to come bearing down._

_And they did, upon her neck and her shoulders. Fenris sat leaning against the tree so that he could kiss and bite and suck on her as he pleased, unconcerned with the warpaint or the blood. And what room was there to care? They were unrestrained in their lovemaking, caught up in the raw power of having survived. There was no space left for worries about trivial things. All that remained were flesh and the tang of blood and salt and want._

_Fenris took that long black hair and wound it around his palm, until his fist hovered near her ear. His encouragements took the form of sharp tugs on her hair as she rode him, until he simply kept the tension between her hair and her scalp. Fenris knew that his arm could withstand being held up for so long. Even if it couldn't, he'd endure all manner of pain if it meant that he could run a hand down the flat plane of her stomach, or a thumb over the pebbled peaks of her breasts. Or if he got to watch her pants grow ragged and devolve into wanton moaning as she slid up and down, making the sweetest noises he'd ever heard._

_His back scraped against the tree bark from the force of Imala's hips. There would be splinters, but he could worry about them when he later slipped on his armor. He couldn't focus on anything but her cunt, and her arse, and her hot open mouth. And her eyes, dark and flashing until his sudden thrust made them close. Until she was close, until his free hand hit the right spot on her swollen knot of nerves and made her scream. She hit a feverish pace atop him to the beat of the drums until they were both wet, and empty, and tired._

_They later sat next to each other in front of the fire back at camp, after bathing together (which did not go unnoticed - the others made jests about it whenever the pair was within earshot). Fenris sank his teeth into his share of roasted fowl and delighted in the spices that washed over his tongue. Only when the feeling of eyes upon him became unbearable did he look up from his hard-earned meal to find himself beneath Imala's gaze. Her eyes twinkled with something he couldn't guess._

_"You were originally from here, yes?' she asked. His flame's tawny skin glowed reddish-brown in the light of the fire. Fenris reached out to run his hand along her muscled leg as he spoke. It had taken some getting used to, touching her so openly. He was still getting used to it._

_He cleared his throat. "So I was told. My Master did say that I was born here."_

_"He is not your master anymore_ _," Imala snapped suddenly, angrily slapping a hand against her knee. Fenris winced. He hated to see her angry, and talking about Master Danarius could spark a flame in her even Yann'alim could not put out. So he fell silent, and returned to his fowl. Imala fumed in silence for a few minutes more, and Fenris waited until she simmered down._

_"I apologize." Then it was Imala's turn to wince, and her hand came out to touch his shoulder. He did his best not to flinch as her fingers crossed his markings. Master Danarius did not seem to notice his cringes whenever he touched his skin, but Imala did. It wasn't until their first time, when he'd pulled her into the forest, that she felt confident enough to put hands on him again._

_"It's not your fault," she grumbled. "The blame rests entirely with that Danarius. If you knew your history, you would be able to break free of him completely."_

_Fenris let the quickly-stripped bone of his meal fall to the ground. "How is that supposed to help me?"_

_"Because we are drops of water in a stream," Imala replied, sweeping her hands in a fluid motion. "If we don't know where we're going or what we are, then how will we ever learn to flow properly?"_

_Fenris said nothing. Imala edged closer to him and began to stroke his back._

_"Yann'alim can find your relatives," she offered. "All we need is the name of your mother. If you have your mother and father's name, even better. Once you're around your blood family, everything will change."_

_He wiped his fingers before he stroked her cheek. "You are my blood family," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. Imala's soft lips pulled at the edges, but she shook her head._

_"It's not the same. Bonds formed from being covered in enemy blood are one thing, but the ones formed from birth-blood are another." Fenris tried to keep from smiling as her tongue tripped over Tevinter words; a sudden wave of sadness made that an easier task. His mind kept pushing against the limits of his memory - to try and go back, beyond the day that he was branded. But all he kept hitting was a wall of blinding white pain, and the sound of infernal chanting in his ears, and the feeling of something sharp and hot against his flesh._

_Fenris wanted to break past that barrier. For her, for them, so that he could be fully one with his newfound clan. He could hear the others chatting idly in Seheran,_ Seyhirani _in their tongue,_ _and yearned to understand. Ached, more than anything, for the moment in which he cut the last of his chains and_ belonged, _but not to a master_.  _To a family. To a beloved. To a people._

_Fenris looked down to see that his fingers were waving against his thigh, for some reason. Imala did not seem to notice._

_"Just tell us their names," she soothed, and the warmth in her touch made Fenris tilt his head up towards the night sky._

_Tears started to form. His fingers finally began to tap against his thigh in quick succession, but the tears came nonetheless._

_He could not remember._

_***_

He'd done it a little too late, but after a few minutes of tapping his fingers he was returned to his mansion at last. Dread sharper than a knife's edge cut through him as the corners of his eyes actually began to sting. Fenris was not one to cry. He had not shed tears in what seemed like a lifetime, not even when his mother died. He'd shattered a bunch of wine bottles and had been lashed thoroughly for it, but even then the tears did not fall. He'd reveled in the passion-filled strokes of the bullwhip as it lashed at his pain. His faith in the Maker was stripped away, too, until it merely occupied that space between his skin and the leather. When Hadriana gave up trying to break him, her frustrated resignation carried the force of her throw as she hurled the bullwhip at him. She eventually stalked off with a growl, leaving him alone and bloodied in the _atrium_. And _still_ , he did not sob.

So why were streams forming on the sides of his face, years later, over a memory?

Fenris was loathe to admit that there were a number of reasons. Beneath all the anger and the hate there was, much as he'd hated to admit it, a well of sorrow. It got deeper as the years passed but _fasta vass_ , did it threaten to overflow while he was alone in a house that was not his home. Even the amplified energy he'd gathered several nights prior at the Blooming Rose could not match the strength of his suffering. Which he couldn't have. There were jobs to take on, and a sword that he had yet to purchase, and he still needed to see Varric. Everything about his life now demanded strength - crying was anything but.

Yet memories were unavoidable: they burrowed themselves deep within flesh, in muscle, in bone. Memory kept his sleep lighter than a feather on most nights, lightning-quick to jolt him awake at the sound of wind blowing through the windows. Memory pumped battle-heat through his veins and bowed his back even when he was in good company. Because memory kept Fenris ready. It made sure that his blade remained within reach and that his fingers were always poised to break through a ribcage. He was well-acquainted with the consequences of forgetting.

And if his recall was beginning to patch together the broken puzzle of his past, the pieces of Seheron that fell into the forefront of his mind were inescapable, also. Fenris had forced himself to remember the command that changed his life. He could still clearly feel the echo of it in his wrists, which had turned to iron ore as he tried to slice away at his guilt. "I am sorry" carried from the tip of his blade through his friends and nipped his blossoming love at the bud, but it could not put them back together again. "I am sorry" could not wash away the sickening feeling he got when Danarius petted him, and whispered into his ear about what a loyal wolf he'd been. A chipped tooth carried the memory of him clenching his jaw as he boarded the Magister's ship, not once looking back on the island he'd left behind. He couldn't. He was certain that if he did, all he'd see were ghosts standing amidst the fog.

Sometimes, when he was brave enough, he would murmur their names before he went to sleep. Once he'd broken free for good and declared himself a free man, he did his best to face his cowardice and beat down his weakness with feats of strength. He'd decided, once he reached Kirkwall, that he would remain forever vigilant. Forever on vigil. If not for himself, then for them. He vowed, on the night that he claimed the abandoned mansion for himself, that he would never be wielded ever again.

It wasn't until he wiped away tears from the corners of his eyes that he actually believed it.

***

"She's here." 

Fenris stopped dead in his tracks as he faced Aveline, who was just about to knock on his door. Her tone was properly weighted by the gravity of her news, but he could only stand there numbly while she delivered the blow. Varania had arrived. In Kirkwall, at the Hanged Man, as he'd asked her to be whenever she was ready. The knowledge that she was there - within walking distance - fell heavy upon his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. 

"I need to know if this is a trap," he rushed. He kept clenching and unclenching his hands. Aveline must not have anticipated such a reaction from him, because she took one step forward and two steps back. As if she were considering calming an animal, bucking at its restraints. But her voice came out soothing-soft, low enough that Fenris had to stop in order to listen.

"I did as you asked, Fenris," she said quietly. Her eyes brimmed with genuine concern as she broke through her hesitation to place an armored hand on his shoulder. "Now it's up to you."

Fenris closed his door and leaned upon it as Aveline walked away. He wanted to go back inside, but couldn't. He wanted to go to the Hanged Man, but  _couldn't_. If Danarius was somewhere lurking in his sister's shadow, then any place that he considered normal could be a trap, with the Magister's men simply lying in wait. His feet itched for direction and so he caved, although he knew not where he was going. Anywhere but back inside that house. Anywhere but the tavern he almost called home.

His thoughts were a steady blur of words and emotions, blending into each other as he walked. Varania was a missing piece to his puzzle, one that might have been lost to him forever if he'd simply killed Hadriana outright. It was not the first time that his hatred made him blood-thirsty, or that his own self-doubt stayed his hand. Had he not listened to himself, he would have been even more bereft of identity than he was before. At least then he had memories of their mother humming as she mended their clothes. Of a bright sunny _atrium_ that clouds never seemed to touch until later, much later, when he could no longer remember the days in which the light made the flowers bloom.

Fenris passed the Amell Estate without stopping. Hawke had offered him an open door that he couldn't bring himself to walk through. He felt like he'd be using the man, to spend years keeping him at a respectful distance only to suddenly ask for aid in such an intimate matter. It mattered not that Hawke was there when he plunged a hungry fist into that bitch's chest and and wrapped needy fingers around her heart. Hawke didn't hear the way Fenris' blood sang in his ears. Hawke didn't know how many nights he'd dreamed of his sister being torn away from him. He thought of those nightmares as he sped past the Hanged Man. It was not a day for closing gaps. They could remain for one day more.

Fenris searched frantically for shades of Minrathous crimson or black, but found none of Danarius' guards nearby. Not that it stopped his heart from threatening to jump out of his throat. Nor did it prevent him from drowning with panic until a hand upon his shoulder made him surface.

"Fenris."

He whipped around with a growl only to find a startled Seven, who raised his hands up immediately. He smelled like the docks; just as Fenris suspected, he  _was_ a merchant, albeit one who handled his own goods. Or perhaps he managed the family business: in the light of day, the man looked only slightly older than Hawke.

"I'm sorry to have startled you," Seven apologized. But all was forgiven: the man was a sight for sore (or stinging) eyes. He'd removed the sleeves from his roughspun tunic, and his bare arms were more muscular than Fenris had recalled. He removed his work gloves and tucked them into a back pocket of his tight-fitting breeches. Fenris could see the shape of his cock through the fabric, surprisingly visible and positioned slightly to the left.

Such a good thing to run into, when one had things to run from.

"I...it's fine. It is good to see you," Fenris said, heat building beneath his collar.

"Good to see you also," Seven smiled. One could recover quickly from fear if lust followed in short order, and he hooked a finger around his belt. "What are you doing here in Lowtown?"

"I had been on some urgent business, but no longer." Seven hummed thoughtfully at this, tone thickening with desire. He took a step towards Fenris. One quick bite of his lips was all it took for him to be transported back to the Blooming Rose, feeling Seven's cock on his arse and his breath on his ear. Not a day passed where he wasn't thinking about his crown pushing against the back of his throat, or the rum and chocolate on his tongue.  _You remember_ , Seven's smirk seemed to say.  _Good._

"Well...I just finished up at the docks. Walk with me, will you? There's one thing left undone, and I'm suddenly in a rush to get on with it."

"Oh? And what is that?" Seven's laugh was throaty and full of promise as he drew closer, not caring that the street was busy.

"Taking you the way I'd promised."

Fenris was good at running. He'd run away from Danarius more than once. He also ran away from his duty to the Fog Warriors, and people who'd needed him. And he had run away from Hawke and into many beds, and ran away from those too, because grief kept him restless. Standing still meant letting the momentum of it really sink in, which he couldn't take.

And as heat flooded all the way down to his groin, Fenris realized that he would be running from his flesh and blood the way he'd run from Hawke, right into the arms of a man whose offer of companionship went as far as his cock. He knew that if he agreed - if he went with Seven, back to his apartments - that the memory of guilt would be fleeting once he dropped to his knees. The pain of remembering would be pushed away by fingers bruising narrow hips. Once again, he would be choosing not to face his trials. But his cock was hard, and something was beginning to jut from those breeches, and he wanted to find out how much he could take after all.

They nearly sprinted the entire way back.

***

Fenris supposed that it was a nice home, right between the separate worlds of Hightown and Lowtown. There was a room with plush seating for entertaining, and probably a kitchen, and a dining room. The paintings hung on the wall were probably very nice, also, including the ones that were placed near the stairs. Fenris had little chance to look closely: he was too busy flying up the stairs with Seven, threatening to choke on him right there on the stairwell, or against the door to his bedroom, or on the bedroom floor. 

Once his armor was off and Seven was bare, there was little chance of him noticing that Seven's bedroom window faced the open street, or the candles carefully placed atop his dresser. Nor the stack of books on a simple table, or the map, the curly edges of which were weighed down by a bottle of wine and a decanter of rum. Fenris would not have been able to appreciate that said bottle was Aggregio Pavali, or that Seven's sheets had been laundered with fragrant blocks of wild flowers.

Once he felt soft lips pressing against his own, he didn't notice anything else at all.

He closed his eyes as Seven pinned him against the wall. He was good at this, far better than Fenris had any right to expect. Within moments all he lived for was that clever tongue and those teeth grazing against his neck, no, the gentle sucking on that space just below his jaw. His cock strained and Seven smiled, rubbing his own length against him. The friction and the joining of their hips made Fenris' mind go blank. He  _pulled_ \- just a little - and bucked easily into his lover as fingers found their way into his hair. Seven had the nerve to take both of them in his hand as he probed Fenris with his tongue. An old Tevinter song began to play softly in the back of his mind, but he drowned it out with a loud groan into Seven's mouth.

"Bed.  _Now_ ," he rasped. Seven still had him by the hair as he turned them around and, with his hips, guided Fenris to the edge of the bed. He dared to laugh, tones dark and foreboding and sticky-sweet. 

"So impatient, like last time," Seven growled into his neck. "Don't make me fuck it out of y-" Fenris raked his nails all the way down his back, and took immeasurable amounts of pleasure in the way Seven's jaw fell open. He felt himself break skin and chuckled. He looked up at the man suddenly looming over him and smiled, like a hopeless warrior facing a giant.

"I would like to see you try."

He paid for that, paid in full, because he was thrown against the mattress with a force unforeseen. Seven discarded all prior softness as he held Fenris down with one hand. Fenris let out a low noise as teeth sharper than he'd anticipated claimed his neck. And there was something that he was missing - it hovered on the edge of his awareness, and seemed urgent - but then Seven's hand was around his cock and he forgot. 

Yet there was something hard and decidedly less tender about Seven's touches than before. There was an edge of desperation, in the way he worked Fenris' length. And his fingers dug so hard into Fenris' skin that he hissed. He raised his head, and was surprised to see Seven beginning to soften.

"Wait," Fenris said. "Stop." Panic flashed in Seven's eyes as he let go of Fenris' cock and let his hand fall. Fenris ran his fingers slowly through the other man's hair. He'd seen this before. He knew it, as well as he knew his own scars; when he looked into Seven's face, it was like staring into a mirror.

"You are not interested in going further."

"I am," Seven asserted, grinding his hips against him, but Fenris could feel the lie when he  _pulled_. The flame he'd felt thrumming beneath his fingertips had died down to an ember.

"You are not, and I can feel it," Fenris said. He carefully wiggled out from under Seven, who flushed red as he turned over and sunk into the mattress. After a moment, Seven let out a sigh and rested his head against the headboard.

"I wanted this," Seven murmured. "I  _wanted_ to want this. This whole," he waved his hand, "casual thing. But I can't. I'm sorry."

Fenris shifted to look at him. Without the lust clouding his vision, he finally saw the way Seven nervously stroked his palms, and the slouch in his posture. The nails that snagged against his skin like thorns moments prior betrayed every moment in which they'd been bitten. And his eyes were not hooded with lust - his eyebrows were knit with concern. It was only then that Fenris realized that "Seven" was not a nickname, but an aspiration. 

"I do not mean to pry," Fenris said softly, "but who gave you the name 'Seven?'" Seven jerked his head up sharply, ready to defend himself, but calmed once Fenris reached out to gently stroke his thigh. Seven looked back down at his hands before tucking them beneath bent legs.

"I did," he mumbled. "I nicknamed myself."

Fenris waited for more as his softened length rolled to the side. Desire faded away as easily as it had come. He was not accustomed to pillow talk with strangers, but did not have it in him to rise. How could he be callous and leave, when he'd ended past encounters without warning as he fled the ghosts that hid beneath every bed? Here was this man who clearly hurt, but did not run. Aside from the matter of it being his own house, he at least tried his best to explain. Fenris decided he would do well to learn by his example. It was not often that he spoke to others like this. If he spoke to them at all, and it was this yearning for some sort of closeness that made him stay.

"I'm just used to being isolated, because I've spent my life being primed to run my father's business," Seven continued. "And he kept me under his thumb until he was on his fucking deathbed. I thought that I'd be free once he died, but...freedom tastes like ashes. I'd go to the Blooming Rose and see all these people touching each other and finding something real. Intimacy. In a brothel," he laughed brokenly. "If you can even believe that."

A fleeting image of Marin and Shielan writhing on a bed came unbidden to his mind, and left behind a dull ache. "I believe it," Fenris said quietly. Surprise flickered on Seven's face before it was overcast by melancholy.

"I'd see it...all around me...but it stopped at my skin. I couldn't let it inside. I mean, having tons of sex was fun, but...once I figured out that renaming myself to a cock reference wasn't helping me get what everyone else had, I realized that it had always been like that. That it was always going to be like that. It wasn't until the night with you, and Leila, that I entertained the possibility that there could be more."

Something needled his chest. He wouldn't string the man along in his hopes for romance while his heart remained Hawke's for the claiming. Another time he might have considered it, but much had changed since he'd been bitten. He felt far more in others - _for_ others - than he dared admit.

"There is...another," Fenris sighed, looking down at his palms. Seven nodded slowly, seeming letting the words sink in.

"Mmhm."

"I don't know what will happen with them, but my heart is still theirs. It always will be theirs. This arrangement, if you seek it, cannot go much further."

Seven paused, as if he was just then hearing everything that Fenris said. He turned and tilted his head slightly, confused.

"I didn't ask for that."

"Then what did you ask for?"

"I didn't ask - well...friendship would be nice," Seven answered, testing the words out with his tongue. "Not that you know me. Beyond the Andrastian sense, I suppose. But I would like to become friends with you, if that suits you."

Fenris drew a leg up and leaned forward, thinking. Friendship was something he'd forged in the heat of battle, not in the joining of flesh. He had never developed strong bonds with other slaves in Minrathous: most of them hated him, especially when Hadriana started dragging them away to take lashes in his stead. And anyone else he'd begun to call "friend" had been someone he'd fought with or alongside for years. He did not know what it was like to nurture a friendship with something other than blood. 

"What would you require of me in this...friendship?" Fenris asked finally. Seven threw him a puzzled look, as if no one had ever asked him such a question.

"Go drinking with me once in a while? Pay a visit or two? Laugh at all of my horrid jokes? I dunno," he shrugged. "The things that normal...friends...do?"

"That is all? Companionship, without a more physical component?"

"...Yes?"

Fenris studied Seven's face, which was drawn taut with anticipation. Seven had actually opened up to Fenris; a foolish risk, one Fenris might not have taken himself, even though he could respect it. And he didn't know what kind of man Seven was outside of rough rutting; he seemed polite, and respectful of boundaries. Which was not enough in and of itself; Fenris would watch him closely, but it seemed like something could grow there if no foul surprises existed to be unearthed.

"Alright."

Seven smiled, and he found himself smiling back.

"Alright."

They sat in silence: Fenris staring straight ahead of them, Seven gazing into his hands. _What a strange turn of events,_ he thought.  _I spend an entire afternoon trying to avoid emotions, and yet here we are_. 

"My real name is Jaime," Seven said suddenly, breaking their quiet. "Well. James, if I'm truly honest. The Third."

Fenris wondered how long it had been since he'd told someone. "A pleasure to meet you, again." James snorted. 

"A pleasure to meet you too, Fenris. Again." He leaned back against the headboard once more before turning his head towards Fenris. His eyes sparkled with something not quite mischievous, but close.

"Also...since we're still naked...I'd like to see you that way, one last time. Would you stand up for me?"

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

"A favor," James appealed to him, "for a friend." Fenris rolled his eyes as James grinned sheepishly.

"As you wish," he smirked. "One final look, and you would do well to enjoy it while it lasts."

The sheets were smooth as they fell away from him, although Fenris refrained from wrapping himself in them once he stood. The window was still open, allowing for the cool air of an early evening to come breezing through. James ran appreciative eyes across his body, then raised a hand and twirled his fingers.

"Turn, please." Fenris scoffed.

"Why?"

"One last full look! Otherwise it's _half_ a look, and I hate half measures of anything." Fenris was surprised at how easily he obliged and turned, slowly, before sinking back down. James propped himself up on one arm as he watched Fenris dress, eyes curious but no longer dark. 

"This person, the one who has your heart," James said. "They really don't know what they're missing. They shouldn't have ever run away from you."

Fenris looked away as heat prickled his cheeks. Once he recognized that admission of guilt, James made an affronted noise as he leaned forward. 

"Shit,  _y_ _ou're_ the one that ran," he accused. "Maker's breath. Does this person still love you?"

Fenris shimmied into his leggings. "I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"I would like to," he admitted, "But I can't. I don't know what to do." James rose hastily, grabbing a robe tossed over a chair to clothe himself. 

"Then, as your friend, here is the first of many pieces of friendly advice I have to give you, that I almost never follow myself," he said. 

"Stop. Running."

***

 _I am a fool_ , Fenris thought to himself. The weight of his guilt almost held his wrist at his side when he went to knock on Hawke's door. No one answered immediately. That should have been the divine sign from the Maker to go back home but, like the fool that he was, he tried again. The echo of his knuckles against the wood seemed to mock him for the attempt.

He heard footsteps, heavy ones, from deep within the hall. Fenris frantically tried to come up with some excuse to offer Bodahn for disturbing them - a letter he could't quite read, or perhaps a new job,  _anything_ \- but had nothing once he saw dark eyes from behind the grated peephole. Bodahn's eyes were not brown. Bodahn was also not six feet tall, with a thick head of black hair that smelled like burning wood.

 _Venhedis_. 

The door swung open, and all his thoughts went with it. Hawke was standing there in his house-clothes, with a startled look that made Fenris want to bolt without explaining himself. But he kept his feet planted on the cobblestone, because he could not run. He had done enough of that, and always ended up in places where everything he'd wanted was well out of reach. Where everything he'd feared - isolation, the hatred that burned inside, his nightmares - patiently awaited.

"Hawke," Fenris rasped. He could have died of shame from how desperate he sounded.

"I need your help."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific content warning** for implied past non-con and implied past sexual abuse, blood, and graphic descriptions of violence and gore. The in-game battle always seemed far easier than it should be for a brawl with a Tevinter Magister. I have adjusted this scene accordingly.

_If we don't know where we're going or what we are, then how will we ever learn to flow properly?_

Fenris still didn't know.

It felt like moving against the tide, walking towards the Hanged Man. Every part of him wanted to go back to his mansion, where he could at least maintain the illusion of security, but Isabela had gotten a hold of him. She brought up the rear of the motley procession to the tavern - "I know you're a runner," she snorted - and kept watch for slavers. He'd huffed at her like a bull and she'd stared at him square in the eyes, unfazed by his red flags. Isabela would drag him by the toenails if it came to it, and for that, he was grateful. He had to stop running from what he was, what he had been, and what he could become. And the first step of many was facing his sister. 

Not that he was entirely unprepared to meet her. He held onto the memories that he unlocked of her - of her bright green eyes sparkling with joy as they played in the  _atrium_ , chasing after each other and falling down laughing amidst the flowers. A shadow hovered on the edges of the  _atrium_ in his mind's eye, but he chased it out with the brilliant light of the hope he desperately kindled. He had to. This would not be a day of bright red blossoms and flashing metal. He would greet her with a kiss on the cheek, not the kiss of his blade.

Then came the image of long black hair and a smile that could calm any demon, of hands that held and loved. Imala had shed crimson tears at his departure, and he left her with nothing. Devoid of hope and life both as her love dripped off his hands and seeped into the soil. Not even this day could burn away the sins of his past, and part of him wished that the shadow in the  _atrium_ would take him at last. He deserved nothing less. He almost wanted nothing more, if not for the hints of a future whispering excitedly in his ears. He began to believe that there was something, although he knew not what, worth looking forward to. He only regretted that it had come at the expense of so many innocents.

 _Imala_ , he thought.  _I am so sorry_.

"Fenris?"

A strong hand touched the bare skin on his arm with incredible tenderness. With a jolt that raced through his markings he returned to his present, only to discover that his feet were firmly rooted to the ground. He lifted his head and found Hawke's warm, dark eyes crinkling with concern. 

"It's going to be alright." Hawke's voice soothed him like elfroot salve, and Fenris took a deep breath. "But we can turn back if this is overwhelming you." He could see a bright blue Rivaini headscarf bobbing in agreement. 

But Fenris still couldn't believe that Hawke had agreed to help him at all. He had done nothing to earn the way Hawke let him into his home that night, or the glass of wine he'd been handed to ease his nerves. Hawke had sat there patiently while Fenris tripped over his words. He explained the letter from Varania, which he'd finally learned enough to read on his own, and the final update from Aveline. And he slipped into what seemed like ages of incoherent babbling about his worries and his fears of what would come after. But Hawke only listened. Fenris had looked up and nearly fallen into Hawke's softened gaze, and his arms, as he said the words "of course, I'll come with you."

_You didn't even have to ask._

"I cannot run any longer, Hawke," Fenris said, giving him a steady look full of intent. "From anything." Something deeper than acknowledgement passed between them as Hawke nodded, then let his hand, then fingers, then fingertips fall away. Fenris' breath hitched for a moment: he had not felt the distance between them close this much in years.

But before he could even begin to entertain a future in which that gap was no more, Fenris had to bridge the ones of his past.

"Are you ready?" Isabela asked once they stopped at the Hanged Man's doors. The hanging effigy seemed more solemn than usual when he looked at it, but he nodded regardless. He was certain that the tavern would be nearly empty at this time of day. Which was good: Fenris wanted to hear Varania's every word. He would commit her voice to memory more dutifully than a Chantry scribe, so that he would never forget it ever again.

"I am not," he answered finally. "But I must move forward. I have waited too long for this." His correspondence with Varania had taken place over the span of many months, too many for Fenris to keep count, until the day that he received a letter which spelled the end to their estrangement. Her words were ornate, a form of High Tevinter he only knew how to speak, but ended with a warmth that chased out his mansion's chill. Despite every reason to have misgivings about him, she came; he owed it to her to swallow his cowardice. So he inhaled as much hope as he could muster, and pushed past the door. 

The first thing that he took in was his own green eyes staring back at him. Varania sat at a table near the stairs, nursing a mug of ale. The rest of the empty tavern seemed to wash away as he headed towards her; the tide still pulled at his legs and feet, but he was too strongly anchored by years of waiting for the moment in which they reunited. He would not get swept away by fear.

Varania had changed much since their time in the  _atrium_ , however. Her eyes ceased to be too large for her face; hair that had refused to be restrained during their childhood was pulled back into a Qarninus-style bun, no longer threatening to burst free. But she was far paler than he'd remembered. Varania looked as if she had avoided sunlight like an Orlesian noble, and the skin beneath her eyes almost looked sallow.

" _Amen_ _te est_ ," she breathed.

Fenris couldn't help but close his eyes as his heart skipped a beat. No longer would he be tormented by nightmares of never seeing his sister again; she was there, flesh and blood and bone before him, even though their bond had been stretched by time and distance. Despite every reason not to, she still found a way to get to Kirkwall. Which would not have happened if she hadn't thought him worth something. She could have chosen for him to remain some distant memory, nothing more, and the fact that she hadn't stole his breath away.

" _Te- te m_ _emini._ " The image of him and his sister in the _atrium_ came bright and clear, of smiles so brilliant they could outdo the sun.  _"Dum Mater laboravi, in atrii domini nostri lusimus. Me vocaveras-"_

" _Leto, te vocavi,"_ Varaniamurmured. She looked down to lock her eyes on trembling hands.  _"_ _Leto tuus nominus est."_

Her voice wavered. The shadow of the  _atrium_ encroached upon his mind's eye. Varania's shoulders bowed under the pressure of some unseen burden, and Fenris was dismayed by the way she made herself  _small_. It was if she was shrinking unto herself, folding ever inward until she no longer remained within his line of sight. A ball of ice formed in his gut when he recognized one more thing that they shared like blood.

Brokenness.

 _"Valesne?"_   Fenris asked, taking a step forward. Her eyes nearly popped open with panic as she shifted back. _"Varania, cur es me-"_

There was shouting coming from upstairs. Fenris could hear Varric swearing passionately over the clang of falling objects. Loud and angry High Tevinter voices filled the air, and he was instantly filled with dread.

"Fenris," Hawke warned, "we _have_ to get out of here, before-"

It was too late. He could feel the shadow descending upon the tavern as his hope flickered and died. No longer was there sunlight in his  _atrium_. Perhaps there never had been.

And dreams were for mages, besides.

"Ah, _mei Fenris._ You were always very predictable."

Fenris wanted to turn away but couldn't - his eyes were fixed upon the courtyard shadow given Tevinter form, hovering above the second floor landing. Danarius and his men began to descend down the stairs like chills down his spine. The Magister's house sigil shone like distress signals at sea upon the breasts of his guards, and Fenris wanted nothing more than to be swept away. Far away. Yet it was a futile wish: his feet were still like stones on the floor. He could also  _feel_ Danarius, whose oil-slick energy slipped past all of his defenses. And as he looked back upon his sister, the ball of ice in his gut turned into flame. 

 _"Me paenitet,"_ Varaniawhispered, just like he did in Seheron. "I'm sorry that it came to this." Fenris could barely translate her transition to Common as he closed in on her. She was a statue before him, crumbling before his very eyes as the seconds passed, and he wanted to make certain that she fell apart.

 _"Te eum hic duxisti,"_ he said, undertones no longer full of warmth. She kept mouthing "I'm sorry" wordlessly, shaking her head like that was enough, and it never would be. He slammed his hands on the table with a snarl and let her face be the whetstone for his temper. Her squeak was no better than that of a nug caught in a wolf's jaws, and he brought his face so close he could almost smell her fear.

 _"TE EUM HIC DUXISTI."_  

Varania began to crumple so close to his bared teeth, like a letter bearing bad news in a fist. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and he was about to grab her with both hands when he felt a stomach-turning pull on his markings.

"Now now, Fenris. _Te reprende."_  Danarius placed an unnaturally-smooth hand on Varania's shoulder, and Fenris recognized her cringe as his own. " _Tuae sororis debitis eam ad Imperium adimplevit."_

Varania paled even further as Danarius stroked her back, a master rewarding some loyal dog. Fenris fluttered his fingers against the table as flashbacks of soft hands echoed against his back and shoulders. The brands carried the memory of his pain; the thought of Danarius removing them came effortlessly, and that was enough to accelerate the wrath that fought to stay beneath his skin.

He sprung back. _"Nunqua volui haec, haec...stigmata, hic_ pestis," Fenris raged, accentuating his words by slapping the markings on his biceps," _etsi non te permittam illas metere._ " But Danarius knocked the wind out of his anger with a laugh, one hand pressed to his own chest.

"How little you know, my pet." Danarius' eyes were bright with a mirth sharpened by cruelty. "How little you know."

A low noise rumbled behind him. The Magister's eyes flicked over to Hawke, running across his hair down to the clasps on his boots with an auctioneer's keenness. One look at the defensive stance Hawke had taken and Danarius' eyes lit up, lips sliding into a sickening smile.

"And this is your new master, hmm?" Danarius asked smugly, turning back to Fenris. "The Champion of Kirkwall.  _Impressive._ "

"Fenris doesn't belong to anyone," Hawke growled as he unhooked his staff. "Least of all, you."

Fenris barely heard a faint whistle coming from the counter; he turned his head slightly, just enough to see Corff barely peeking above the wood. A pale index finger tapped downward against the surface while a pair of bushy eyebrows jumped up and down.

 _A weapon_ , Corff mouthed.  _Under here._

_You're gonna need it._

But Danarius had stared down far more dangerous men and lived. Hawke's implicit threat held no candles to Danarius' own, mainly that Danarius already used blood magic to get what he wanted. Hawke's expression sputtered briefly as he regarded him with a knowing, utterly _familiar_ smile.

"Do I detect a bit of jealousy?" Danarius drawled. Fenris felt his foul lust wafting off him as Danarius' eyes ran over his form. "It's not surprising. The lad  _is_ very... _skilled_ , isn't he?"

" _Tace_ , Danarius," Fenris hissed, lighting up like a torch. The lyrium strained longingly against his skin. His fire burned away at him until he was lighter than air, and he could feel himself becoming closer to the Fade. He'd suffered for what little he had, and he'd fight to defend it to the death. He would take every last Tevinter in the room with him before he died.

Danarius rolled his eyes. His men readied themselves at his signal, with a wave of recently-oiled metal that shone in the low lamplight.

" _Mei tituli_ _, meae deliciae,"_  Danarius sighed, _"Dominus_   _est."_

It was like the first thunderclap of an oncoming storm. Varric managed to break free of his captors and tossed a smoke bomb down the stairs, buying Fenris just enough time to race over to the counter. Corff was nowhere to be seen as he seized the sword hidden underneath. He immediately knew who thought to leave it there. Varric had been suspicious of Varania even while Fenris nearly plucked out his own eyes with his hope. For which he would forever be in his debt, because Fenris would not have been prepared for his sister's treachery even though he'd come to expect it from everyone else. The weight of the blade felt just right beneath his hands; raising it with a wordless howl, he leaped back into the fray. For Fenris was a furious woodsman in a forest of foes, and he would not stop until every last one of them was chopped down.

A flash of light filled his peripheral vision. Hawke was incandescent, and burned so brilliantly with raw Fade energy that the lyrium brands screamed in Fenris' skin. Danarius' men fared no better than the floor around Hawke's feet, which splintered and cracked from the magical pull. Isabela laughed mockingly as she slashed at the backs of uncovered knees, and arms, and necks. Only one escaped her reach, a mage, and Fenris felt the man's body concede to the point that made itself clear through his chest. The rest struggled to survive a whirlwind of magic and metal -one that whipped them far better than a  _flagellum,_ and would leave more than flayed skin.

But a hearty chuckle in the back of his mind turned his gut into a bottomless pit.

_You picked an excellent master, my little wolf. So generous of him to mind you for me._

Fenris whipped around. Danarius was back upon the second floor landing, shielded by shadows that wrapped around him like cloth. As Fenris beheld his traitor sister with dismay, the bastard had pushed past each of his mental defenses. When he was in Minrathous,  _this_ was the voice that spoke just before he began to kill on the Magister's behalf. It would urge him on as others fell to his blade, until he found himself standing alone and covered in their blood. That was what slithered into his awareness, and its presence there made Fenris' skin crawl.

Danarius sought to distract him to death; Fenris refocused just in time to deflect an incoming blow from a brute in heavy armor. He was lucky to have caught only a minor wound for his negligence. The man's helmet was useless against the bolt that suddenly lodged itself in one of the gaps, and Fenris felt a wave of relief as the corpse sank to the ground. He looked over to see Varric nod solemnly as he loaded another.

"I've got your back, Broody," he called out. "Just keep hacking at 'em!"

Bianca was music to Fenris' ears. Her bolts hit her targets like a drum while Varric hummed, and loudly so. He felled enemy after enemy with a disturbing level of focus that only increased with every shot. Fenris would let the bolts grab their targets' attention before he swung, parried and destroyed, and the pair fell into a reliable rhythm. 

_Thwack-thwack-thwack. Thwack-thwack._

_Slash-stab._

_Thwack-thwack-thwack. Thwack-thwack._

_Slash-stab._

Varric roared with laughter as one more of Danarius' men became a bloodied heap on the floor. Several more burst into the tavern, but all burned with the strength battle-heat granted them. "Let's dance, you sons of bitches!" Varric crowed. "We'll take you  _all!_ _"_   And they did, one by one, even while Danarius tried to turn the tide from afar.

A storm gathered near the tavern ceiling; lightning crackled down, greedily claiming any body it could find. Hawke was strong enough to wrest control of the clouds, but not for long; Danarius had not become a Magister by chance, and even Hawke could not face the Tevinter alone. Fenris could see him preparing another spell when his voice slid back into his mind.

 _You consider them your friends,_  Danarius mused. _Did you tell them this? Do they know what you do to your friends, my pet?_  

Fenris ran his tongue over the chipped tooth and nearly bit down. Danarius used Common because he knew all too well that Fenris would be forced to translate. The more he spoke, the more mental energy Fenris would have to spend listening to him, until he made a misstep in battle that proved fatal. But he underestimated how much Common Fenris had learned to speak, and it took less effort to understand than he'd feared. The words came easily to him as he came to blows with another adversary.

 _You made me kill them in Seheron, just like the others,_ he hissed.  _You pressed that command upon my mind until I had no choice._

 _Did I?_ Danarius replied.  _I seem to recall you obeying with fairly little reservation. Such a good little wolf, you were._ Fenris let out a guttural growl and brought his blade down upon his foe until he fell. It felt as if the island ghosts were crowding into his skull, and their faces flickered in his vision until he shook his head like a wild animal caught up in the chase.

_TACE!_

He shoved the Magister out of his thoughts. Fenris broke the dam of his restraint and let his rancor flood him to the core, until he was nothing but a blur of vengeful light on the tavern floor. But his skin suddenly began to prickle; the Veil was beginning to tear above him. He was only narrowly able to warn the others before the room lit up with a sickly green light. The stench of the demons arrived well before they clawed their way into being. Nausea claimed him as the Magister returned, and burrowed deeper into his mind.

 _Do you see these_ _?_ Danarius asked him as wraiths crawled out of the Veil. _Your new little friends cannot shield you from the Fade forever. Only_ _I am the one to protect you from your enemies, and all your demons. Internal or otherwise, although...from what I sense in you, you've_ become  _one._

"NO!" Fenris yelled, sending a flare of spirit energy across the tavern. Danarius' laugh couldn't be drowned out even by the bone-rattling shriek of a rage demon, and only got louder as Isabela took a fiery blow to the thigh. Her boot steamed; an angry red burn could be seen through all the smoke. She lined up a string of curses to shout her way through the injury, but she still moved too slowly to dodge a smoking glance to her shoulders. Right as one more rage demon began to slide her way.

Fenris raced towards her. A cloud of arrows came raining down upon the Fade creatures, but didn't stop one of them from reaching back. Its arm side-swiped Varric; Hawke screamed his name as the dwarf flew against the wall with a dreadful crunch. Fenris knew that from the way that his eyes rolled back, he was knocked out cold. Or worse.

Hawke stumbled to the side and yanked the cork off a lyrium potion with his teeth. Fenris felt the heat radiating off the rage demon as he sent his blade crashing against it. The thing grabbed the metal; Fenris was prepared to let go when Hawke covered the demon in a wall of ice. Its screech of defeat rang in Fenris' ears. They watched it harden and crumble into ash, until nothing but smoking wood and embers remained. Isabela swayed like a weeping willow, covered in burns, and her smile was wild and crooked.

"Is that it?!" She tilted her head back to unleash a dogged laugh. "I've scratched my  _tits_ harder than your demons did!" But even her cackle quieted down in the face of silver flashing at Danarius' wrist. Once-lifeless corpses, caught up in a crimson mist, lurched up from the floor and took up their weapons. Fenris could hear flesh rending as a dead reaver removed an arm, unable to find its original weapon.

"Well, shit," Hawke groaned.

 _You see now that running was a waste of time,_  Danarius laughed. The corpses locked onto Isabela and Hawke before rushing them with an unnatural speed. He didn't know how long they would last, and raised his blade to aid them when something twisted his sword arm. White hot pain burst behind his closed eyelids as he cried out.

 _Did you think that you would have a normal life? Settle down in Kirkwall with a mate and little wolf pups, perhaps?_   _I suppose I must remind you of what you did in Solas. Those poor children met your blade so easily._ Fenris tapped his fingers rapidly against his thigh as the images pressed into him, unbound. He struggled to control his breath as his vision swam.

_Their blood covers my hands less than they cover yours._

_But they coat your hands nonetheless, pet. Never forget that._

There was the sudden tang of iron in his mouth. A stray corpse had gotten close enough to knock him square in the jaw, and its long clawed gauntlet left red trenches in his skin. Fenris burst past the throbbing in his wrist to beat it back, kiting until he could drive his blade clear into its head. A foul odor reminiscent of demons filtered out of the gaping wound. The smell of it compelled him to wretch. He managed to jerk himself upright as another animated body skittered towards him, only to be halved by his sword.

Isabela screamed: a dead brawler had delivered a devastating kick to one of her kneecaps. Hawke managed to burn it to death as he whirled his staff, but it was too late. The battle had claimed her, and she dropped her blades in resignation. She could barely drag herself towards Varric against the wall with a whimper. Only Hawke was left; even his will was beginning to unravel, however, as two more undead began to rise. Fenris held his gaze and found nothing but a tired stillness, despite wounds that threatened to render him useless.

"You can do this," Hawke said firmly, unnervingly calm as a storm built up at his fingertips. Fenris charged at the corpses while Hawke closed his eyes and crackled with power. The forks of lightning never once touched Fenris, even as his blade sank into electrified flesh. He curled his lip at the smell of burning skin. A small thing to endure for the sake of life.

And Danarius, still bleeding, watched them fight for it.

 _This Champion fights hard for_ _you._  Danarius nicked himself again, making the corpses move at a pace so frantic that Fenris almost couldn't keep up. _I will forgive you for allowing him to master you fully. Don't dare deny it, as no man would risk his life for a slave that didn't satisfy even his baser needs. But tell me. Did you move for him like you did me?_

One of the undead drove him further away from Hawke, until they were completely separated. Fenris fervently wanted to look back to check on him, but struggled with the monster that lived only to ensure his demise. It managed to wound him twice before Fenris could remove its head; he spat as he kicked its helmet to the side. Danarius cast some spell that had fatigue pulling his bones towards the floor. He stopped to catch his breath when a pained shout reverberated against the tavern walls.

It was Hawke. The undead warrior swung tauntingly at him as he staggered back, too seriously wounded to cast. Tried as he could to summon another storm, the sparks around his staff could barely light a candle. And his eyes were beginning to glaze over. The spell was working quickly, and Hawke would never hear Fenris' warning about the coming jab.

 _This is why I put a collar on you, my pet._  Danarius spoke over Hawke's cry. You _always liked to_ buck _against your Master until you tired of it. But the game is over, mea deliciae._

Hawke tried to dodge the next attack. Fenris' heart raced as he took one step back, tripped against a chair and fell. Hawke did not have the strength to rise. His wounds, numerous and deep, were finally draining him faster than he could recover.

 _Put aside your folly._ Danarius' words snapped against Fenris like a whip. _It is time to come home._

Fenris' body still screamed for respite. Danarius' magic always did that to him, sucked away his strength like leeches to feed his depraved projects and abhorrent spells. Fenris feared that he would spend the rest of his life trying to scrub away the stains it left behind. If he lived, which he couldn't bear to if Hawke lost his life trying to fight for him.

So Fenris shouted like a madman to grab the corpse's attention; it swiveled its head towards him with a broken neck, and it jerked its axe high into the air. Fenris readied his blade. He was tired. With a desperate determination, he braced himself and waited. His doom was the sound of heavy boots thudding against the floor, of some inhuman noise coming from a lifeless throat, and an axe that gleamed wetly in the light as it whooshed.

"You will not take him from me," Hawke shouted hoarsely behind it. His fingers shook like leaves from the blood loss as they fumbled for his last potion.  _"Not on my fucking life."_

 _What?_  

Fenris froze. He felt something bite his shoulder and narrowly shifted out of the way before the reaver's axe could cut any deeper into his armor. Despite his desperate need for haste, time slowed down; his feet dragged like cursed anchors, while his arms felt sluggish and heavy. He saw the weighted hilt well before it pummeled his ribcage and the crack, sickening and succinct, threatened to suck the air out of his lungs entirely. A spike of ice pierced in his assailant's neck too little too late. Fenris could only stagger backward and gasp for air as the corpse hit the ground. Not that he wasn't already breathless; Hawke said it, said  _those words_ that he never expected to hear even though he'd echoed them in his own heart a thousand times.

But Danarius was a jealous man, and he did  _not_ like to see Fenris distracted.

It was only then that he decided to come back down the stairs. The Magister made no effort to hide his satisfaction at the clang of Fenris' sword hitting the floor. And Fenris had seen that expression before, in places he did not wish to remember but did, before things that he wished to forget but couldn't. Danarius strolled across the blood-soaked tavern floor with the ease of a man who always got what he wanted.

Glass hit the floor as Hawke made a strangled noise. Fenris ripped his eyes from the Magister and found him writhing wildly on the floor against unseen restraints. A mostly-empty bottle rolled with a haunting tinkling sound, fractured and cracked. Hawke was dying, as slowly as Danarius could manage. And Fenris knew he'd be forced to watch.

"Fight. Him," Hawke mouthed. His eyes bulged as something tightened around his neck.

 _Have a care, pet,_ Danarius warned, drawing closer. _Never forget that I made you, and that I know why you falter. You falter because you are weak. You falter because you were meant to be wielded by a Master._   _Remember that_ I _am your Maker, and you_ shall _return to my hand._

He was so very tired. Fenris could no longer ignore his injuries, and they all screamed for his attention at once. He was dimly aware of the crimson war paint that dyed his leggings - was it all his? he wondered - and the desire to lay down was overwhelming. Yet the fight for his life was not yet over: blood may have splattered against Danarius' robes, but he was far less weak than he appeared.

There was definitely no Maker, Fenris decided. If anyone broke the chains that dragged him down, it would have to be him. If they only fell away as Fenris struggled against his former master, so be it.

 _Say it,_ Danarius demanded,  _or your precious Champion dies. Call me your Master, and I may consider letting him live as an act of mercy._

 _I will not let you murder him, you bastard,_ Fenris thought. He grunted as a burst of hot air struck him across the face. The force of it knocked him down. His bones, finally where they ached to be, refused to let him rise as Danarius crouched next to him. The shadows that swirled around him felt like winter. When the Magister stroked his blood-covered cheek Fenris shivered under his touch.

 _My poor little wolf is lost_ _,_  he said coldly. _Allow_ _me to help you find your way home._

And then he was in Minrathous, in the  _atrium_. He could hear the sound of a fountain gurgling and something beating against a carpet. The afternoon sunlight warmed his skin as his younger self chased after a butterfly, not caring if he got caught crushing flowers underfoot. There was a woman nearby, hair covered in an oily rag. Only when she turned her head slightly to glance at her child did Fenris realize that she was his mother. 

Years of ache rocked through him as he watched her. She couldn't see him, but he begged her silently nonetheless to turn so he could see her face. Younger Fenris collapsed into a fit of giggles onto the grass all the while, black hair covered in vibrant green blades as the butterfly came to rest on his nose. Which his mother saw. Her cheek raised in what he assumed to be a smile before she turned back to her task. But the broom was more like a sword in her hands, and she smacked the ornate rug hanging in front of her with a skill tested only in battle. His mother proudly held back a cough as she raised up clouds of dust. Once she got into a comfortable rhythm, she began to sing:

_Even if the winds blow west, or north_

_Remember, child of the mountain,_

_That you are stone older than Gods._

_Who are they to try to move you?_

Her voice was deep, and there was a rich timbre to it that made younger Fenris stop rolling around to listen. Her back was still turned, but he could see one of their Master's kerchiefs on her wrist. The Magister's crest had been embroidered carefully into the fabric, but the bright threads failed to distract from the brand the kerchief was there to conceal. His mother glanced furtively to her left and right before removing it. Once his eyes honed in on the symbol that marked her, his heart fluttered with recognition. His mother stroked it lovingly as she sang, and Fenris watched with awe as she continued.

_...Even the fog does part for the sun;_

_Burn, sweet child of the morning,_

_Til even shadows learn your name._

_Who are they to try to swallow you whole?_

Younger Fenris gasped. A shadow crept across the grass and onto the tiles, swallowing sunlight as it went. But something dawned upon Fenris, and it ignited a fire within that the shadow could never touch. He had been wrong: the words that sometimes crept into the back of his mind were not part of a Tevinter children's song. They were Seheran _._ And they were  _old_ , only gracing the tongues of mouths that earned the right to sing it. That he knew Seheran at all rendered him weightless, and the force of his realization was so strong that he could have cried.

He finally knew what he was.

Fenris shattered the illusion with a roar. The very last of his strength funneled violently into his core before he flung out one final pulse, and Danarius cried out with surprise. Fenris could feel the Magister's power winding down as his hands made scrabbling noises against the floor. So he lashed out; his fist glowed with a glorious blue light before it disappeared into Danarius' chest. Danarius' heart sang a tune that was full of terror, and the way it strained against his fingers made Fenris want to dance.

But he  _pulled_ instead. There was no lust left, only life; the color drained from the Magister's eyes as Fenris greedily drank of him. He was the child at the Mirathous public fountain, not thirsty now, only rejoicing as he splashed. He did not stop - would not stop, even though the life that coursed through him made his stomach lurch. His flesh began knitting together; he grinned savagely as a rib snapped back into place, while Danarius could only look on with disbelief.

"I do not bow to you because I am no longer yours," Fenris snarled. Danarius' feet kicked against air as he raised him up with a godlike strength.

_"You are no longer my Master."_

Fenris broke Danarius' heart, in denying him his body and soul. It felt gratifyingly soft - no,  _weak_ \- against his hand as he clenched victoriously, over and over again until he was sure. Chains unseen cracked like bones under the weight of his power. Danarius fell to the floor like fetters. The man who'd emptied him out and poured in darkness - who had taken years of his life and destroyed the man he could have been - had been reduced to nothing but a husk.

And Fenris was _free_.

He flung excess blood off his gauntlets with a triumphant growl that was punctuated by a muffled sob, coming from underneath a table.

Varania trembled as she stood, pale as a ghost from watching him fight. Battle-heat drummed in Fenris' ears again, urging him to finish what she had begun. He had been correct only in one thing: she came to Kirkwall because he meant something to her. All that remained for him to learn was what price hung over his head.

No longer upheld by a Magister's hand on her back, she broke. "I-I had no choice, Leto-"

"Stop _calling_ me that," he hissed. He loomed over her at his full height while she shrank, like a flower in the  _atrium_. He would crush her underfoot if he could. She did not deserve to utter his name at all, not when she used it to lure him to the chopping block.

"But it's true, I swear it," she warbled. "He was going to make me his apprentice. I was going to be a Magister."

Her words were the heaviest blow he'd taken the entire day. His light was swallowed by the darkness of her truth, and he longed to rip out her tongue for it.

Every inch of him screamed for her death, demanded it, as his nostrils flared. The flash of defiance in her eyes only spurred him on, and he was clenching and unclenching fists that ached for enemy skin. His own sister, the one whose bond with him was supposedly forged in birth-blood, was a mage. And not only a mage, but a mage who would turn her own family into unwilling blood sacrifices for greater power. 

Truly, what could magic touch that it didn't spoil?

"You sold out  _your own brother_ to become a Magister," he spat. "And you were foolish enough to believe him?" But she shook her head, and she clutched the tiniest shard of courage as she raised her voice.

"You have  _no idea_ what we've been through - what I'VE been through since Mother died," she asserted, balling her small fists. "This was my only chance." Fenris could only imagine what she had learned under Danarius' tutelage. The Veil was wearing thin in the Hanged Man; he knew it, which mean she most certainly did. He wanted to wrap his hands around her heart before she could stall, and then fell him with her cursed magic.

His lyrium brands thrummed to life. "And now you have no chance at all," Fenris rumbled. His blood boiled with fury; she was no better than Danarius, using him as a conduit for more power than was deserved.

Varania saw her life flash before her eyes and sobbed. Her hands formed a feeble shield against whatever bitter end would come. "Please don't do this," she begged. But he had no more words remaining for her, so she appealed to someone behind him. "Please - make him stop!"

Fenris turned. Varric was just coming to, still leaning against the wall. A bloodied Hawke was straining to heal Isabela's wounds when she caught his attention with her shrill pleas. The look Hawke gave Varania was cold and pointed, and she shrank even further under the scrutinizing force of his gaze. 

"Fenris is  _not_  some thing to be commanded," Hawke said flatly. "Did you not learn that from all this?"

"Then help him see reason.  _PLEASE!"_

Hawke stared at her. She had taken to filling the silence with hysterical sobbing before he held up a tired hand. 

"As much as she  _absolutely_ deserves it after what she's done," Hawke began, "don't kill her." 

 _Slaughter her,_ Fenris' blood seemed to roar. _SlaughterherslaughterherslaughterherSLAUGHTER HER-_

"And why shouldn't I?" Fenris snapped. "She was more than ready to see me killed. What is she to me but another tool of the Magisters?"

Varania began to pray. Fenris whirled around, and nearly lunged from the sight of her cowering. "QUIET!" he bellowed, ripping a terrified scream out of her. "Your Maker will not save you from paying the price for what you've done. Every one of you mages is the same - Mother would be ashamed to know that you went against your own flesh and blood to become _just like the man who enslaved her._ " 

"Elf...Fenris."

He turned around. Varric's words came out with a hoarse whisper that Fenris almost didn't hear over the sound of his bloodlust. Blood trickled from Varric's ears, and he kept his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall. "I know that this is hard to believe, but this is the  _last_ thing you want to do."

"She _is_ your family, Fenris," Hawke said firmly. But Fenris shook his head, teeth bared.

"Family would never betray me like this," he retorted. "She is no kin of mine." Tears streamed down Varania's cheeks as she cringed in his shadow. She resigned to quiet weeping as she awaited her death, and Fenris raised a glowing fist. But the question that had haunted him for days stayed his hand.

_If we don't know where we're going or what we are, then how will we ever learn to flow properly?_

He was more than this. Varania may have been little more than a power hungry mage, but he was far more than the hatred Danarius poured into him. Even if hatred was almost all he knew. One of the first languages that he'd learned after the branding ritual was violence; it was the only one in which he could communicate well. But violence did not cure his condition. It had not made him friends, even though they became comrades first in the thick of battle. And it had not secured loyalty from anyone, a thing that he'd craved but scarcely believed in.

So Fenris admitted, finally, that he would be a hypocrite to ignore the way his rancor was not unlike a blood mage's lust for power, taking everything it could seize until there was nothing left. Fenris had something worth protecting - even from himself - but if he killed Varania it would all be for naught. If he took her heart into his hand, he would only be putting finishing touches on what Danarius molded him to be. He was forged in suffering, had dealt plenty of it, but got a taste of a world in which it wasn't his name.

He was never going to be wielded again.

"Get out."

Varania scrambled to obey, and darted past him towards the door. She was almost there before he gave her a final parting gift:

"Live with the knowledge that it is because of my mercy that you even draw breath."

At that, she stopped. Fenris watched her turn around, and the tenacity that stiffened her back reminded him strongly of his own. He tried his best to bury their similarities but she shook her head, and his efforts with it. He'd seen it even when she was in the shadow of death, some inner knowledge of  _something_ that would remain intact even as the rest of her dissolved.

She wiped her eyes. "You said you didn't ask for this, but that's not true," she said quietly. "You wanted it. You  _competed_ for it. When you won, you used the boon to have Mother and I freed, and you-"

"Why are you  _telling_ me this?" he exclaimed, voice cracking under the weight of the truth. He knew deep in his heart that she was not lying, and his widened eyes only hardened the determined glint of hers. 

"Because freedom was no boon," she said, closing her eyes as her lips trembled once more. "I look upon you now and think  _you_ received the better end of the bargain." 

He would not look at her as she departed; she did not look back. When the door was closed he went to help Varric up, but found him only paces behind him. Isabela was able to walk, barely. Hawke still looked at him with soft eyes wrinkled with worry, but his staff was the only thing that kept him standing. He had dragged all three of them into this; if they looked like rags thoroughly wrung before being hung out to dry, the blame rested solely with him.

"Fenris," Hawke limped towards him. "Are you alright?" 

He shook his head. "I should be asking about you, Hawke," he said. "I shouldn't have-"

"Fenris. I asked you first," he interrupted with thin, wiry tones. His lips settled into a line drawn thin by exhaustion. Fenris nodded curtly, and pushed his self-loathing aside as best he could.

"I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging, but I was wrong," he sighed. His battle-heat evaporated and left behind only a chill that sank deep into his skin. "Magic has tainted that, too. There is nothing for me to reclaim." His sadness drowned out the beginnings of his mother's song, which echoed in his ears. Even if she  _had_ been a Fog Warrior before her capture, he wouldn't dare take pride in it as part of his history. Any right to his roots had died with the men and women he'd killed because he was told. He had condemned himself to drifting aimlessly before he even knew what was at stake.

"I...am alone."

Hawke's exasperation began to melt away. " _I'm_ here, Fenris," he said.

Fenris took one step towards him; Hawke took another, and they met each other halfway. Hawke's skin thrummed quietly beneath his hand, and he ran a tired thumb across his cheek. He hadn't known what it would feel like, to be this close. Had almost put it entirely out of his mind. But once he was finally there - once Hawke's hand raised to cover his - Fenris cursed himself for waiting so long. The day truly was one for bridging gaps. The respectful distance he'd held between them no longer felt respectful, but painful, and was long overdue for closure.

"I'm here," Hawke whispered fiercely.

This time, Fenris wouldn't run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept spoken Tevinter fairly close to Latin, although I made one or two alterations. However, I am 10000% open to corrections, because there's a not-slim chance that this is all completely botched despite my knowing the dead thing. Please let me know!
> 
>  **Atrium:** Courtyard  
>  **Amen te est:** Truly it is you  
>  **Te memini:** I remember you  
>  **Dum Mater laboravi, in atrii domini nostri lusimus:** While mother worked, we played in our master's courtyard  
>  **Me vocaveras:** You had called me  
>  **Leto, te vocavi:** Leto, I called you  
>  **Leto tuus nominus est:** Leto is your name / Your name is Leto  
>  **Valesne?:** Are you well  
>  **Cur es:** Why are you  
>  **Mei:** My  
>  **Me paenitet:** I'm sorry  
>  **Te eum hic duxisti:** You led him here  
>  **Te reprende:** Restrain yourself  
>  **Tuae sororis debitis eam ad Imperium adimplevit:** Your sister has fulfilled her duty to the Imperium  
>  **Nunqua volui haec, haec...stigmata, hic pestis:** I never asked for these, these...markings, this curse  
>  **Etsi non te permittam illas metere:** Though I will not allow you to harvest them  
>  **Tace:** Shut up  
>  **Mei tituli, meae deliciae, Dominus est:** My name, my pet...is Master  
>  **Flagellum:** Whip


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've been able to work on this piece; thanks to the help of the ridiculously talented, insightful [Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/works) [(Tumblr)](http://mirabai0821.tumblr.com/), I was able to break through my writer's block and return to it. I am so, so grateful that she agreed to beta this for me. 
> 
> Also, a number of you have approached me on Tumblr in the last few months - I am grateful for the asks about when Feed would return, the messages of encouragement, the comments on the fic itself. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This fic's steady approach towards completion is in part because of you.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this update. I promise I won't make you wait as long for the next.
> 
> -Domina

Fenris and Isabela fought about whether Fenris should go home as they waited for Anders. “You just experienced the most dreadful family reunion, and you’re playing mama cat over a few scratches?” Isabela said, eyes widened incredulously. “Go _home_ -”

“Do not downplay your injuries.” Fenris burrowed through the thick layers of emotion to focus on her injuries, especially the one that made mottled wine out of the skin on her knee. “I am not leaving.”

Isabela rolled her eyes before turning to Varric. “Varric-”

“This isn’t like Wicked Grace, Rivaini. I can only pull the ‘Convince Fenris’ card on the elf once a day.”

She growled with frustration.

“Hawke?”

All eyes swiveled to him. Hawke had watched from his seat atop one of the tables. He placed all of his weight upon his staff as he hunched forward. “None of us are going anywhere, Bela,” he said softly. “You took nastier blows than anyone else.”

Isabela let out an exasperated sigh. Too tired to feel anything like triumph beyond his grim determination, Fenris crossed his arms beneath his chest.

“I will depart when the mage gets here.”

“You’re _insufferable_ , Fenris.” Isabela leaned her head against the wall, chin tilted towards the ceiling, before turning her head just enough to smile at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They let the silence sit with them. What could be said? Danarius’ death was a sound triumph, even though Varania’s treachery made ashes of it in his mouth. What could any one of them say that would assuage _that_?

Anders arrived with his typical flair ("Andraste's _tits_ , Hawke, you got banged up!"), though he sobered up the moment he took the entire scene in: the broken chairs and bodies littered about the floor, the smell of undead, the blood. This had been the cost of Fenris’ freedom; he wondered if Anders thought it was too high a price to pay as he looked at all their injuries, then looked at Fenris with simmering resentment.

Fenris was certain that he’d offer some flippant remark, as the man could never keep his mouth shut. But Anders’ lips formed nothing more than a grim line as he shook his head. A truce, if one could call it that, just long enough that the people around them could heal before they went at it again.

“We brought him, ser!”

A scrawny pair of children, a girl and boy, stumbled into the tavern next. He found them several paces away from the tavern (which was still no place for children, Fenris thought) with hunger burning coal-hot in their eyes. Fenris surmised that they were some slumlord’s eyes and ears from their less-than-tattered clothing, but it did not matter. They - not the many older, stronger passers-by who had no doubt heard the commotion from within the Hanged Man - were the only ones to step forward when Fenris limped outside to shout for a messenger.

Hawke smiled softly at them, sliding off his table. “Thank you for helping us,” he said while fishing in his purse. “We appreciate it.” The pair had probably never seen six sovereigns together at once, much less pressed into their hands by someone like Hawke, and they thanked him profusely before bursting back out onto the street.

Fenris watched them go. He prayed, to no one in particular, that they wouldn’t spend their coin foolishly. It was unlikely that they would ever see such generosity again, even if some thug paid them to do his or her dirty work. Much more likely that they would become targets for people with more desperation and less scruples about robbing children.

He turned to find Hawke watching him. He’d made no further moves since Fenris grazed his cheek, but Fenris saw the question that lingered in his expression. _Do you need to get out of here?_ Hawke’s face seemed to say. He nodded - Anders was there, and would likely help clean up the Hanged Man before departing. He had no cause to remain.

He decided to take one last look at the corpse not five paces away from where he stood. Not that he needed it: he had burned into memory every wrinkle, every line of Danarius’ face, twisted into a flawless mask of horror so pure that Fenris would have been awed by the art of it. _If_ it hadn’t belonged to his former master. _If_ the little trickle of joy he felt at killing Danarius wasn’t dried up by the heat of his hate.

For years, _that face_ had twisted itself into pride, indignation, fury, smug superiority, lust. Fenris had come to hate it, would daydream about clawing at it until he made a gift of it, rage-red ribbons stretching down the sides. It was that face that haunted him more than anything else. He would have fought to the death to avoid capture. It was seeing Danarius’ face, viciously triumphant, if he had been returned that he dreaded most.

Danarius’ body stood out among the rest; he’d died far away from the escorts that he’d surrounded himself with, whole stretches of land away from the retinue of students and Magisters who were still too weak to risk drawing his ire. He’d made himself important, Danarius. And here he was, lying on the dirty floor of a tavern in the backwater district of some even more backwater city, alone. And dead.

Fenris hoped they tossed his body to the wolves that lurked outside Kirkwall’s gates. A fitting end, for thinking he could keep one on a leash.

It was done. He moved towards the door; Isabela was the first to notice. “Are you alright to leave?” she asked, twisting around Anders to see him.

“Stop _moving_ , you,” Anders muttered. His magic cast Isabela in a sickly blue light, deepening the lines of her frown.

“I will manage.” Fenris cast a sidelong glance at Hawke. “I am not alone.”

Strange to say it so casually, even though it felt right upon his tongue. Hawke drew nearer to him as he spoke.

“Thank you again, Anders. I don't know how any of us would manage without you,” Hawke said. His hand brushed against Fenris’ as he raised it, making him shiver.

Anders’ eyes flicked between the two before narrowing. “Yeah, well. Anything else of yours gets hurt this evening,” he said, “you know where to find me.” And then he yelped, because Isabela could pinch more than just coin or baubles.

Varric rolled his eyes, then leveled a look at Hawke that Fenris couldn’t quite read - encouragement, he suspected, or some close approximation. “Get some rest, Fenris,” he sighed, turning to him. “Maker knows you deserve it.”

The evening air was cool against Fenris’ skin as they walked outside. He inclined his head towards Corff’s man, Andras, leaning on the wall outside the Hanged Man. He’d been stationed there to warn off unsuspecting patrons. An easy enough task: Andras was a full head taller than Carver, had a voice that boomed like a mabari’s, and carried a curved Rivaini sword.

“Curved. Swords,” Isabela had gushed once. She’d always been drawn to weaponry, and could talk about the subject unaided for hours. “Don’t you see the _appeal_ of those things?” He did; Andras’ blade glinted dangerously in the lamplight, sharp and menacing, even though his smile was anything but.

“Hell of an afternoon you had in there,” Andras remarked. Lightly, as if his day had not been made heavy with corpses.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Corff’s havin’ fucking _kittens_ about it, you know. Won’t stop complaining about the cost of repairs. _I_ say, broken furniture’s a low price for making sure those fuckin’ Vints don’t come ‘round anymore.” He spat into the ground. “No offense.”

“None taken. But forgive us, Andras.” Weary as Fenris was, he was eager to be away from the tavern. “We would rather not linger for much longer.”

“Naturally.” The lamplight made the guard’s bald head glisten as he nodded. “Drinks on me next time you’re back, yeah?”

Hawke inhaled loudly as they made their journey back towards Hightown. "I never thought I'd say this, but I’ve never been happier to smell Lowtown air."

Fenris chuckled. "As am I. One comes to appreciate it after smelling demons and undead." But he was troubled by the way Hawke leaned on his staff, knuckles almost white, as if it was the only thing keeping him from meeting the ground. "Are you sure that you don't want Anders to heal you? We can still turn back."

"Ah, I'll manage. Isabela is worse off than I." Thin lines formed at Hawke's brow as he tried to smile, unconvincingly, to show that that he was fine. As if he had not walked with a limp or a hunched back.

It was with some familiarity that Fenris’ frustration curled up in his chest. Typical of Hawke, to subsume his wants and needs to protect someone else’s. Fenris realized with acute cynicism that it was a rather useful trait in an eldest child but not...when they’d all grown up. Especially not now, when no one remained to be cared for but himself.

"If you insist, but I will walk you home. You are vulnerable."

He had thought that the end of it. He took a few steps only to find himself caught in Hawke’s stare, so piercing that it stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Aren't we all?" Hawke said quietly. Fenris heard his tone and the words, loaded as they were, rolled down to the place where his fear had been.

Fenris opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. _Not yet_ , he thought.

_Not here._

Instead, he let the gap between them fill with sounds of the city preparing for the evening. Hawke's staff kept time to the chorus of hesitation, and worry, and doubt that played loudly in Fenris' head, but they exchanged no further words aloud. They had not been _alone_ with each other in ages. Fenris had wanted it, but not under circumstances like this; not when they were coming out of a fight, bruised and bloodied.

He couldn’t help but revisit the scenes at the Hanged Man over and over: the fire in Hawke’s eyes after Varania revealed herself, again after departure. And before, those brief glances filled with a fierce pride. And when the undead bastard with the axe had turned its attentions on Fenris, he’d shouted:

_“I won't let you take him away from me.”_

Fenris’ shoulder still hurt. But he hadn't been able to move, not after that, not until the axe came down. Men said stranger things on the brink of their own demise. Would Hawke change his mind once he’d rested and his wounds had healed?

There was still the matter of his sister, as well. Fenris drew breath, but had not caught it in the slightest: memories of their shared childhood seemed to linger in the air, fragments of songs he hadn’t remembered hearing, games he’d known without playing them. Though he preferred to choke on those memories instead of tears.

He’d lost his sister. His only sister, a mage. His only sister, an aspiring Magister. His only sister, a traitor. His last living relative, and the final image he would have of her was her back, turned to him, for the rest of his life.

There was, he realized, a cruel irony to it all. Before Hadriana gave him the parting gift of remembrance, he had worked hard to distance himself from his want for belonging or blood. When the memories came back, he cared - no, _craved_ it, only to watch it slip through his fingers as if it hadn't already soaked the earth. Gone.

Aside from the memories, he would never get that back.

"Fenris...Are you alright?"

They were in front of the Amell Estate. Hawke gently placed a hand upon his shoulder, correctly assuming that Fenris wouldn’t see him right away. Fenris wanted to and say that he was fine, that he only needed some time alone. He couldn’t: the words were heavy on his tongue. His throat seemed to tighten as the truth tumbled out.

"I - no. I am not," he admitted. "In the blink of an eye, I gained and lost the only family that I had left. Then I learned that I asked for _this,_ ” he raised a glowing arm, “to be done to me. It will be a while before I'm alright."

Hawke shifted against his staff. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, shadows that Fenris found himself wanting to kiss away. "Do you want to be alone?"

_No. I do not._

_Then please let me stay,_ Hawke's eyes pleaded.

"I don't want to make you walk all the way to the mansion," Fenris said, cursing himself as the words came out of his mouth. "You are injured. You should be at home-"

"Fenris," Hawke shook his head, "Bodahn and Sandal aren't here anymore. Orana...I'll explain to you later, but she isn't here either. It doesn’t matter. I would go with you."

_Please._

"Thank you."

Fenris’ heart outpaced their footsteps as they walked towards his mansion. It waited for him at the door, beating faster as he fumbled for his key.

“I will need a moment to find the tinderbox,” he warned. “I am not -” He was about to say, “I am not used to having guests at this hour,” but that was a lie, and he blushed at the depth of his untruth. A number of his evening guests were humans; he had marveled at how well they’d gotten by with such incredibly poor night vision. “I do not use it often.”

Hawke nodded his understanding. “I can help you look for it,” he said, straining as he looked around. “Where do you normally keep it?”

“Close to the fireplace. It is the brightest light source at the moment.”

Only when Hawke found it - quickly, much to Fenris’ surprise - did he realize that Hawke could have used magic even in such a weary state, but had refrained.

That restraint was not lost on him.

They lit just enough lamps to light their way upstairs. Fenris guided Hawke to the room adjacent to his chambers (finally, he could say that they were his), where they lit the fireplace in silence. There was comfortable seating in this room, at least, right in front of the fire, and all the necessities befitting a guest room. He spotted a pail for water as he pulled at his gauntlets.

“I will prepare your bath. But for the moment, please sit.” The gauntlets thudded as he dropped them onto the table. “Do not worry about staining the furniture.”

Hawke obeyed, and leaned his staff against the wall before heading towards the chairs. “Only if you’ll sit with me, Fenris,” he said. “You don’t need to take care of me, you know. You don’t _have_ to.”

Fenris paused. Hawke raked his hair nervously with his fingers, not noticing the dried blood on his knuckles.

“Look, I - today was a huge day for you, and I know where the water pump is. I’ll manage the bath later. Don’t fret over me.”

He wouldn’t argue with Hawke, not when his voice was so tightly laced with _please_ , though Fenris _wanted_ to be a good host. But Hawke was so much more than a guest in his house. His home.

He was home.

“Then allow me to get wine. For both of us,” Fenris amended before Hawke could protest. Hawke made a satisfied noise before settling deeper into his chair.

Fenris kept wine in almost every room; he’d placed a rack of it next to the bucket he used regularly for water, for easy access. Not caring which wine he grabbed, Fenris took two into his hands and set them on the table. They uncorked easily.

“Bottle,” Hawke said as Fenris reached for a glass. “It’s a straight-from-the-bottle kind of night.”

Fenris was surprised to hear himself laugh. Hawke’s smile was lopsided as he accepted Fenris’ wine, then raised it in toast. “Where’s yours?”

“In a moment.”

Normally it took Fenris several hours to convince himself to remove his armor before turning in for an evening. At least, when there wasn’t someone in his bed to cause him to remove it as fast as his fingers could move. But it felt constraining against his body now, like a blood-stained cage, and so he reached up to unfasten it.

Only when he bent to place the Amell crested placard next to his gauntlets did he see Hawke watching him from his chair. His eyes slid across Fenris’ legs, up past his arms until finally, they rested upon Fenris’ face. Their eyes met. Hawke abruptly looked away and down at his bottle, cheeks flushing rapidly.

Hawke was still gazing at his bottle by the time Fenris adjusted his jerkin, then lowered himself into his seat. He looked up at Fenris with sudden solemnity. It was as if he had made some unspoken decision, some pact with himself, and the weight of it settled heavily on his features.

“To broken chains; may they always break,” Hawke said, raising his bottle.

“To broken chains.”

Fenris couldn’t look away from that face, even after the bottles clinked together, or after the wine washed over his tongue. Hawke didn’t break his gaze, tipping bottle towards his mouth, until it left a reddish stain on Hawke’s lips. The impulse to lick his lips came and went, leaving Fenris haunted by the ghost of his own desire.

“So. How does it feel to be completely free?”

Fenris had not thought; had not had time to think, not since Danarius’ body hit the ground. “I don’t know,” Fenris confessed. Had he truly considered himself free? Had he been?

_“The chains are broken, but are you truly free?”_

_No_ , Fenris realized, remembering the witch Flemeth’s words. She’d had better vision than Hawke, using some unseen magic to pry deep into his innermost self with her eyes. There was still more of his past that remained locked in his mind, he was certain of it. Until his memory resembled a steady stream instead of a shattered vase, he would be chained to the pain of remembrance.

And the people who did this to him were dead. Danarius was _dead_ , at long last. But what was his rage without a target? Arrows, Fenris realized, tipped with poison that would kill _him_ instead.

 _I am not truly free,_ he though. _Not yet._

“...I’m so sorry, Fenris. I didn’t mean to put you in a darker place.” Hawke was talking to him in between swigs of wine.. “It was inconsiderate of me.”

Fenris shook his head.

“Do not apologize. It is a question with an answer that I am still considering.”

Hawke leaned forward. He always did that whenever he listened intently, placing a thoughtful finger upon his full (Maker, they were full) lips as you spoke. It was part of why everyone felt special when they met him: he could look into your eyes, past all your armor, and touch you at your core. Just like Flemeth had, though his eyes were warm where hers burned.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Hawke nodded, and Fenris felt the distance yawn a bit wider as he leaned back.

“Not _yet_.”

Hawke paused.

“I must acknowledge that this will take time for me to...come to grasp.”

“I understand.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Hawke tilted his head back into the chair. Fenris took a swig, then a gulp, of the wine in his hand. Caught off guard by its curious taste, he pulled away to examine the label. Still Aggregio Pavali, his favorite; still the same vintage year as the stuff he’d drowned in for months. Why did it taste just a shade bit more sour than before?

“Thank you for allowing me to stay with you,” Hawke said finally, drinking deeply from his bottle with his eyes closed.

“The privilege is mine. It is I who must thank you for staying with me.”

Hawke opened his eyes.

“Always.”

This was the bridge across that respectful distance, this moment. Fenris felt it deep in his bones, felt his longing turn to lightning on his skin as Hawke reached the same realization. This was the bridge, and he would cross it gladly. It was time.

He hoped that the words would come to him as easily as they had in his daydreams.

“We should talk,” Fenris began slowly.

Hawke appeared to brace himself. “About?”

“About the night that I left.”

He stiffened; Fenris felt a sudden urge to take it all back, to run even though it was his own house. But Hawke merely rolled his shoulders and exhaled, long and heavily, as if he could breathe out all the hurt in one go.

“What _happened_ , Fenris?” Fenris heard the ache and just like that, he remembered how pain and confusion made a battlefield of Hawke’s face. And he _had_ wounded Hawke, in walking away; only later would he discover how deeply he’d wounded himself.

So Fenris uncorked his shame and poured it all out of him, not stopping until he’d run out of words. He told Hawke about the memories, how he’d been flooded with sights and thoughts and sounds he’d never known to have experienced until that night, with Hawke. How he’d felt so _open_ with Hawke that the clot of trauma fractured. Fenris poured, and poured, and poured it all out, until Hawke’s eyes were wet and shining.

“You could have _told_ me, Fenris” he whispered. “You didn’t have to suffer alone.”

If only the shaking hand he placed on Hawke’s knee could soothe where his words could not.

“At the time, I believed it to be my only choice. I thought it would be better if you hated me. I was wrong, Hawke, and I am sorry. I will never hurt you like that ever again.”

Hawke rose. A flash of panic struck Fenris in the chest. He immediately reconsidered the words in his mind, fearing that he hadn’t said quite enough to reflect his remorse.

Then Hawke was suddenly at eye-level with him, down on his knees. There was a thrum to his voice, deep and earnest. “I want you to understand something,” Hawke said. “It took me a while to realize that whatever it was that made you leave, it was the only thing that prevented you from staying. And that’s why I decided to wait for you to come back.”

Fenris sat there, mouth open from the shock, while Hawke went on.

“I won’t lie to you, what you did hurt. A lot. But I’d seen how you used to sleep in your armor, and how you could be woken up with a snarl just because the wind blew the wrong way. And how you used to get this thousand-yard stare after seeing or hearing certain things. I knew that you had ghosts, but I - I care about you, Fenris. If you had explained any of it to me, I would have understood.

“But I didn’t know how to tell you then, because I didn’t want to force it, so I’ll tell you now: I want to stand by you. No matter how tough or scary things may get. I’m not a seer, but whatever the future holds, there’s no other person I could think of facing it with but you.”

Fenris leaned forward. Hawke was an open book whose passion was writ plainly across his face, in the way he moved to touch Fenris but held back. So he took Hawke by the chin and pulled, gently, until he was kneeling between his legs and those hands were pressed upon his thighs and he could smell Hawke through the sweat and the blood. _I did not think I had a choice_ , Fenris thought to himself as he pressed his forehead against Hawke’s, _but to shoulder my burdens alone._

But of the boons that running away had granted him, choice had been the very first. It had taken him years to see that there were many roads that he could have taken, if only he had seen them. He saw them all now, possibilities branching out in his mind’s eye.

“Three years I spent waiting for this moment,” he whispered. “If I could go back, I would have told you everything.”

“We can only take the paths that are in front of us,” Hawke murmured. “But you don’t have to walk them alone.”

So Fenris closed his eyes and made a choice.

He chose Garrett with his lips, pulling him into his arms with the force of years of want behind him. He chose Garrett with his hands as one ran through that thick, dark, hair, the other winding down Garrett’s arm to find his hand. Their fingers intertwined on his knee and something grew there, between them, in the fertile soil of their longing.

Fenris poured every fiber of his being into that kiss, as if he could communicate all the words he should have said with his lips. Garrett groaned into his mouth as if his throat had been dry, voice cracking. They drank greedily of each other by that fire until they pulled apart, panting and beholding the other with awe.

Then Fenris sank to the floor and pulled Garrett back in. Never before had it felt so good to be breathless.

“I missed you,” Fenris sighed, rolling to his side. Garrett smiled as he shifted to face him.

“And I you.” The kiss he pressed against Fenris’ mouth was sweet yet left him wanting, the heat of it still lingering even as he pulled away. “Shall I run the bath?”

And Fenris let him, because who was he to stop a man from bathing in his own home?

Some time later, after they emerged from the bath clean and healing (Fenris had tossed in a packet of healing herbs; they worked in minutes, and his shoulder pain began to fade), Fenris took Garrett by the hand and brought him to bed. Getting tangled up with him felt as natural as breathing, and they sought each other’s mouths and hands and legs until sleep made them slow. Their kisses grew languid and easy until finally, they just lay there, the silence no longer representing a gap but a joyful reunion.

A Hightown clock struck midnight when they decided that sleep could no longer be beaten away. Fenris backed into his beloved until they were flush against each other. Garrett’s hardness did little to quell his own, but he ignored it. Come morning, they would make up for lost time.

“Dream well,” he said. Garrett hummed as he draped an arm over Fenris’ waist.

“You too. Should you be troubled by nightmares, I’m here.”

 _Let one come_ , Fenris thought as he heeded the Fade’s call. _I am not alone._

And there was nothing, in this world or the Beyond, that could tear them apart.


End file.
